Falling for London

by Sean Mallen

  “We thought it was somewhat negligent, unfortunately. Hate to use that word,” said Jeannette apologetically, as though she had anything to apologize for.

  Other U.S. citizens I overheard in the corridors were already planning the great American response to disaster: a class action lawsuit. Who could blame them? You could see in their faces that they were exhausted, shell-shocked, with fury growing by the minute.

  The cruise company had set up a flip chart in the lobby with information for passengers. Many had already written nasty notes about the Concordia’s captain, Francesco Schettino.

  I was having no success finding Canadians. One man had already been quoted in the initial reports, but repeated calls to his room got no answer. I found the names of two other Canadians staying at a nearby hotel, but no answer there either.

  My stress level started to rise: this was the kind of story where reporters tear out their hair, fearing that the competition will get a compelling interview that they miss. As I searched for the number for the Canadian Embassy, we got a tip that CBC was already there, speaking to survivors. The Corp had a local stringer who was several steps ahead of us.

  Fuck.

  Dan and I flagged down a taxi and screamed through the quiet Sunday streets of Rome into the centre of the city. Our driver was not equipped with GPS and had to pull out an old-fashioned map book to find the address, all while the clock ticked and our prospects looked bleaker.

  When we arrived our CTV friends Ben and David were already there. They had landed a couple of hours after us, but had gone directly to the embassy. They told us that the people I had been calling for hours had just emerged a few minutes earlier, declining an interview, saying that they had already spoken to the CBC.

  I buzzed the door. No answer. I phoned the embassy and got voice mail. I emailed Foreign Affairs in Ottawa and got the usual maddening response: “We cannot facilitate interviews.”

  My blood was rising to a boil. While an Ottawa bureaucrat six time zones away was telling us staff could not help arrange interviews, it seemed that staff inside the Roman embassy was doing just that for our friends from the public broadcaster. Meanwhile, we stood outside with our thumbs up our arses, unable to access the interviews we desperately needed.

  Here is where the job of a reporter can be less than admirable. We were searching for people who had endured a traumatic event. Passengers had died on that ship. I always kept their feelings in mind, but at times like this the number one priority is to find the people we need to interview and sensitively, but persistently, persuade them to go on camera to share their near-death experiences.

  Succeed and you are a hero with the producers. Fail, while the competition gets the story, and you look for the nearest hole to crawl into.

  After thirty futile minutes of waiting, a couple in their sixties emerged from the embassy. Dan and David scrambled their cameras onto their shoulders, Ben and I approached with microphones in hand.

  The man raised a hand. “We’ll talk to you … but later,” he said. Although he could have easily told us to piss off, his tone was friendly. Lawrence Davis even gave us his room number at the Hilton and promised that he and his wife, Andrea, would indeed grant us an interview later in the evening. I wanted to believe him.

  It was clear that we would not be driving to Isola del Giglio that night, so we went back to the Hilton, checked in, and I started writing my story. Fatalistic, I did a script without the Davises — even as I called their room repeatedly for progress reports.

  Finally the call came from Dan, who was waiting downstairs: they were on their way down. It was eight o’clock, already dark in Rome but still time to get the essential element for our story and file.

  We agreed with our CTV friends to share the interview on the lawn out front, because they did not want to go through the process twice. Lawrence Davis was remarkably genial about the whole thing. Andrea was understandably suspicious. She was walking with difficulty and I noticed that her feet were swollen and scabbed.

  She gave Ben and me a penetrating look.

  “This is just one interview for one story, yes?”

  “Absolutely!” said Ben and I simultaneously.

  She took our business cards and asked for our guarantee that they would not get any more calls, either at the Hilton or when they returned home to Calgary. Who could blame them? But of course our guarantees were worthless.

  The Davises were enjoying a late supper when the Concordia went aground and started listing. It was like a scene out of The Poseidon Adventure. Tables started sliding over to the walls and panicked passengers ran for their lives. A crewman told them to go to their staterooms — advice that the Davises immediately recognized as stupid.

  They ran on deck and found chaos.

  “I told Andrea to stay away from open doors, because people were flying by like bowling balls, hitting walls, fracturing limbs,” said Lawrence.

  The sea was rising to their knees, with no lifeboats in sight. But they could see the shore just a short distance away, so they jumped. It was not the North Atlantic, but the Tyrrhenian Sea in January is brisk. From their vantage point, the giant cruise ship appeared to be tilting over on them, so they swam for their lives.

  “I shouted at Andrea, ‘Paddle, paddle!’ So we kicked and swam, kicked and swam.”

  Adrenaline pumping, hearts pounding, they scrambled up the rocks and coral, Andrea’s bare feet shredding in the frantic escape.

  She pointed down at her ruined feet. “I didn’t even notice. They were just these things at the ends of my legs.”

  While the Concordia’s crew were fumbling, the Giglio islanders were already springing into action, despite the late hour. As the Davises stumbled ashore, bleeding, soaked, and chilled, the locals were ready with blankets and loaned clothing. The shipwrecked passengers were brought to a church for shelter and warmth.

  “This is the first day of the rest of my life,” said Andrea. “We were just so grateful for everyone’s support.” She clutched Lawrence’s arm. “And my lionheart for pulling me along the way!”

  The wary Andrea had delivered a golden, sincere TV news moment.

  I asked her what she thought of the Costa Concordia’s handling of the disaster.

  She pressed her lips together. “I don’t think you would want to put that on the news.”

  Lawrence showed us his watch, which had stopped at 12:15, the moment they jumped ship. He was still wearing it, almost reflexively, but planned to throw it away.

  The Davises were veteran cruisers and had planned to take another one in the Caribbean in a few weeks. Not anymore.

  Interview over, I shook their hands and sincerely wished them well. Solid citizens, the Davises. Admirable people who had prevailed with grit and dignity when caught up in a lethal clown show.

  And, of course, I was endlessly grateful to them for giving me an incredible story. Vancouver was thrilled. I was relieved, but faintly dissatisfied. In truth, most of my day’s efforts were futile. I only stumbled onto the most important part of the story, not through any journalistic skill, but through a bit of good luck.

  In the morning, we drove two hours north to Porto Santo Stefano, the jumping-off point for Giglio. Normally sleepy in January, it was teeming. There were satellite trucks parked along the port and dozens of reporters and camera crews prowling for any useful interviews.

  Our immediate need was a boat to the island. The ferry had already left and would not be back for hours. We walked up and down the docks, searching for an Italian mariner who wanted to make a nice fee from a Canadian TV crew.

  I spotted a blond reporter, Swedish it seemed, chatting with a guy wearing a wetsuit — evidently one of the divers searching the wreck. His English was rudimentary and he was clearly reluctant to speak to a reporter, but she was doing her best to charm him. Reflexively, Dan put his camera on his shoulder, ready to roll — but the diver held up his hand, smiled, and shook his head.

  Just then, a boat pulled into the doc
k with several camera crews aboard. Looked like our ride had arrived. Captain Stefano Donnini normally made a living taking divers out to Giglio but was now reaping a low-season windfall shuttling both coast guard officials and media out to the disaster scene, and charging a premium.

  The price would be lessened if there were more crews going, but sadly there were only five of us, and so our share was €340 — steep for a twenty-minute ferry ride, but the cost of doing business. We gratefully climbed aboard.

  Whatever you think of cruise ships, floating palaces of excess consumption that they are, there is no denying they are imposing sights, towering maritime edifices — when upright. The Costa Concordia was now a mortally wounded behemoth — still gleaming white, but sprawled unnaturally on the rocks of Giglio. We could not take our eyes off it.

  Dan rolled all the way in to the island, each shot more spectacular than the last. I took advantage of the view to shoot a couple of standups with the wreck as a backdrop.

  The docks at Giglio were teeming with reporters, salvage crews, and locals who were busily opening up their restaurants that had been closed for the season. We were on a tight deadline because Captain Stefano needed to head back to the mainland within an hour.

  Our Swedish friends had been there the day before and had good advice for the best location, so we shared a cab for the short, bumpy ride out of the village and out to the most favourable viewpoint.

  As we hiked down to the shoreline, I grabbed a quick interview with a local named Mario, who luckily also spoke some French — a good thing since my Italian is rudimentary at best, whereas my French is borderline functional. In a fractured, trilingual interview I managed to get him to say that everyone on the island knew the Concordia’s captain had made a mistake, because of the rocks that are just offshore.

  With the clock ticking before the departure of our ride, we barely had time for Dan to grab a few more shots from shore and to knock off another stand-up before we headed back to the docks.

  On the run to the mainland, I interviewed Captain Stefano, who had years of experience in the waters around Giglio.

  His English was ungrammatical but powerful: “I think it was a crazy captain. When you make navigation to the coast you need a little ship.”

  All in all we got a much better story than I had expected when the day began.

  Our home base would be the San Biagio Relais, a homey and cute hotel in nearby Orbetello. Unfortunately, it had sketchy internet service, meaning we would need to have our story done early to allow for slower upload.

  As I started writing, there was an email from Isabella, saying she was pissed off and sad. “I’m sick and tired of being left on our own. Sick and tired. First you’re in London for five months while we’re in Canada, then Greece, Egypt, Ireland, and now Italy.”

  I felt my guts wrench. We had barely arrived and there was pressure to leave — and I could not blame her. I had already been considering a quick departure, given that Dan had rolled his ankle while shooting on Giglio and was now limping badly.

  With a deep breath, I composed a note to Vancouver, gently suggesting that perhaps we could consider pulling out the following day.

  “Wait a minute,” came the immediate response from the producer. We got on the phone immediately, where I described in general terms the complications, saying Isabella was not feeling well.

  “Does she have to go to the hospital?”

  “Well … no, but it’s tough being the sole caregiver in a new city.”

  “Oh, Sean …” she said sympathetically. “Stay one more day, okay?”

  “Okay,” I murmured.

  This is why so many foreign correspondents are single … or divorced, I thought. Generally speaking, if you take the job you must expect to be sent somewhere and to stay there until the story is done. In my single days, it would have been a grand adventure. Now, happily, I was not single, which was so much better in so many ways. I suffered less loneliness in a foreign country, but being a husband and a father also brought demands on my time and presence.

  The satisfaction from the day’s work had now evaporated into guilt. I emailed Isabella the decision.

  Her response: “Work wins again. Yippee. Hope you’re having a great time. Bye.”

  Fuck.

  It was ten o’clock before the story was safely delivered, but fortunately there were a couple of little restaurants open nearby. Dan limped and I moped as we walked into Trattoria La Pergola, a family-run place where I noted that a lovely half-litre of wine cost a mere €5. I drank it.

  The next morning we found a cheaper lift out to Giglio. A guy named Luca agreed to take us and another TV crew to the island for only €140 each. Prices were dropping.

  The main harbour was closed as we arrived, tied up with salvagers coming in, so Luca brought us to another landing a few hundred metres to the south. On the way in he pointed out the rock that the Concordia hit — the end of a shoal running out from Giglio.

  “Ha colpito l’isola [he hit the island],” observed Luca, shaking his head in disbelief.

  This was not to be a day of much newsgathering. The harbour was lined with live trucks and I was booked to do a series of hits for morning shows from coast to coast back home. It is a curious ritual — you answer roughly the same questions from different anchorpeople from Halifax to Vancouver.

  In the end, the only original video we shot was a fresh stand-up. The larger portion of the day’s story would be filled with elements from agencies — a common procedure for smaller operators like us.

  The principal news of the day was the release of a recording of a phone conversation between a coast guard captain named Gregorio de Falco and the Concordia’s hapless skipper Schettino in the desperate minutes after the ship went aground.

  It emerged that Schettino had gotten off the ship ahead of many of the passengers — he claimed that he had fallen into a lifeboat by accident. No one was buying it and he was already being painted as a tragically incompetent boob, who guided the ship to disaster in part because of a misguided attempt to impress his dancer girlfriend.

  Captain de Falco became an instant and admired celebrity because of the way he barked at Schettino to get back aboard and do his job leading the evacuation.

  New and sensational chapters were being written about the Costa Concordia every day.

  Back at the hotel, the email from Isabella was at least neutral rather than angry as she noted that all the women in her sewing class were talking, enthralled, about the disaster. Encouraging, given that the latest word from Vancouver was that we would likely be staying until Friday.

  Couldn’t argue. It was an incredible story.

  By Day Three we had figured out the cheapest way to get to Giglio was to arrive in time to take the scheduled ferry at 10:00 a.m. We pulled up at the docks at 9:20, and I strolled across the street to the ticket office. As I stepped up to buy, the agent looked at me with wide eyes and pointed to the sign that said departure was actually at 9:30. I looked at my watch: 9:30.

  She quickly issued two tickets, shaking her head that we had no chance. I ran across the street to the dock. My eyeglass case fell out of my coat pocket and I stopped, and pirouetted to pick it up with all the grace of a hog-tied calf. It was a moment when I felt fifty-four. Dan was standing by the gangway, where he had convinced a couple of crewmembers to wait. They hauled up the ramp behind us as we hopped aboard.

  The ferry was packed, both with journalists and tourists. As we approached Giglio, everyone scrambled over to the starboard side to get a view of the hulk, smartphones and news cameras alike capturing the spectacle.

  The tragedy of the Costa Concordia had become a macabre tourist attraction, an unforgettable view, but I kept reminding myself that there were still unrecovered bodies aboard.

  The media circus had grown even larger at the harbour, with multiple interviews and live shots underway simultaneously. One-stop shopping for reporters.

  A slender young man named Kevin Rebello was dra
wing much interest from camera crews. It turned out that his brother, Russel, a waiter, was among the missing — last seen helping passengers on the listing deck, even as the captain had already gotten off. Kevin had flown in to witness the salvage efforts and to personally remind all who would listen of the human cost of the accident. Russel’s picture had already been posted on Facebook, along with others who had not been accounted for.

  Kevin told me that he still was optimistic his brother would be somehow found alive, but in his heart he surely must have known he was gone.

  “It’s very difficult. I don’t know where I’m getting this courage from,” he said. Next to the ship itself, the image of Kevin Rebello standing on the pebbled shore, looking out at the wreck, was the most compelling of our time on Giglio.

  Officially, the Italian Coast Guard was saying that they were operating on the premise that there could still be survivors aboard. Their spokesman, Filippo Marini, could not do interviews in English, but told me in French that “absolutely, there is still hope.”

  The Italian representative for the salvage company was also making himself available at the harbour, and I managed a couple of questions in English about the challenge of moving 2,400 tonnes of fuel off a ship that was damaged and on its side.

  The hulk kept shifting, forcing them to periodically stop work for the safety of the crews.

  Meanwhile, the disgraced Captain Schettino was standing in front of a judge on the mainland, claiming that he did not deliberately abandon ship early, but, rather, fell into a lifeboat.

  His story was that he had steered the Concordia close to the island in order to stage a salute to a former crew member who was now living on Giglio.

  “But I made a mistake,” he testified. “I was navigating by sight because I knew the depths well … I ordered the turn too late.”

  No shit.

  But some nuance was creeping into the narrative of the incompetent captain. It seemed the Concordia had staged a similar manoeuvre just a year earlier with no mishap — and no complaint.

  This would be our final day on location. Our friends from the opposition network had already headed back to Rome to fly out. The story would carry on for much longer, but there was no longer a need for us to be first-hand witnesses.