Eventually I make it to an outside door. Rain pelts against the window set into the door, but I’m determined to go outside. I pull the door toward me to open it, and the force of the wind outside is so strong it almost knocks me back. Holding firmly with both hands and bracing my feet on the floor, I finally manage to hang on to the door as I step over the bulkhead to the deck. Then it takes all my strength to close the door again.
Water is sloshing around on the deck, and my bare feet are instantly cold, the bottom of my dressing gown sodden. Rain stings my face as the wind whips my hair around and flicks it into my eyes. The waves are gray, flecked with foam, and massive. It’s too rough to go over to the railing, and anyway I’m worried I could be swept overboard if one of those huge dumpers decides to fling itself onto the deck. I breathe the salty air in deeply and will my stomach to settle. Finally I begin to feel a little less nauseous.
I can see hardly anyone else is out on the deck and think it’s better to get back into the warmth and safety inside. But just as I’m about to open the deck door, I’m almost knocked over by someone coming out. It’s Gavin, and he too can’t sleep and feels a bit unwell. We huddle behind a pole, trying to find shelter from the wind.
“I wonder how much longer this is going on for,” says Gavin.
“You mean the storm, or the whole thing?” I have to shout so he can hear me over the roaring wind.
“Everything. I don’t think many of us can stand all the uncertainty much longer,” he replies.
“I reckon we should approach the captain and demand answers.”
“He won’t just suddenly tell us, not after all this time of secrecy.”
I know he’s right. But we need to think outside the square.
“We could always tell him we’ll throw him overboard unless he tells us where we’re going. That way he’ll have to spill the beans,” I suggest.
“He won’t buy that. And I don’t think we would be threatening enough. He’ll call our bluff, and we won’t achieve anything.”
We both look out to sea for a bit, feet planted wide while holding on tightly to the pole to keep our balance. We are mesmerized by the massive swell.
“I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t you pretend you’re going to throw me overboard?”
Gavin says, “I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t keep up the pretense.”
“I could. I love acting. I’ve been in heaps of plays at school.”
“I don’t know, Jilda.”
“Think about it, I’m serious,” I say. “Anyway, I’m going in. I’m drenched and freezing.”
I turn and Gavin helps me wrench open the door again, and I slip inside. Not being able to spend time on the deck means the interior of the ship is more crowded than usual, as people have to shelter somewhere. As I stagger back to the cabin, other passengers stare at my hair, which must be plastered to my scalp, and my dressing gown is so wet I’m dripping onto the carpet. Shivering, I enter our cabin and am grateful the bathroom is empty so I can have a hot shower straightaway to warm up.
While I’m in the shower, I’m surprised when Simone walks in on me. I’m just about to say something about privacy, but she rushes across the small room and leans over the toilet bowl, retching. I turn away so I don’t have to watch as the vomit pours from her throat. Seasickness.
I feel a bit better after being out in the fresh air, but the sight of her throwing up makes my stomach turn again. Mum had stocked up on seasickness tablets for the trip, as she was worried we might feel ill, but none of us had needed any, as it had been fairly calm then. Now the conditions are quite different. The strength of my stomach toward seasickness has never been fully tested before on our day trips with Dad, his boat hugging the shoreline, and I’m now finding out that I don’t cope all that well without at least ginger tablets.
Simone washes her teeth at the sink, apologizes to me, and leaves. The next minute, in staggers Sheryl, who does the same thing, grasping the edge of the toilet seat for support. It’s getting like Pitt Street in the bathroom, and I have no time to be embarrassed that I’m naked in front of everyone. They are too busy throwing up to care anyway. Just as I’m drying off, in comes Simone again. I say nothing, just step aside and let her race to put her head over the toilet bowl. The sound of her vomiting turns my stomach even more. I’ve been prevented from hearing the other two puke sessions by the sound of the water in my ears in the shower. Now the sound fills the bathroom, and it isn’t pleasant. The smell is saturating the air too, even though I have the fan on. I get out of the bathroom as quickly as I can, wrapped in my towel, and dress in the main part of the cabin. Up until now I’ve continued to get dressed in the bathroom, so I can enjoy a little privacy, but I can’t stand the fetid atmosphere in there a moment longer. My head swirls, as does my stomach.
The others have lain back on their bed or mattress and are moaning softly. They look equally miserable. I notice they are pale, almost a gray-green. I probably don’t look much different. At least if Marta’s seasick, she’s in the infirmary and can get looked after.
It’s almost time for our shift to be over and to leave the cabin for the next sixteen hours, but I can see neither of them is in any state to move. But they have to, and they know it, because any minute now the next four passengers will be coming in to take our place. We still have to pack up our bedding, clear out the bathroom of our toiletries, and deal with our towels to leave the bathroom and beds free for the next shift. I feel sorry for them having to go into the puke-smelling bathroom, but there isn’t much I can do. Then I have an idea. I return to the bathroom, tip some body shampoo down the toilet bowl, and swill it around with the toilet brush. It helps a bit. But the action of leaning over the bowl brings on a sudden retching that feels like it’s emptying my insides out. When it’s finally over, I clean my teeth and wash my face. I look at myself in the mirror. My face is white, but I feel a bit better now that I’ve spewed the contents of my stomach up at last. I squeeze out some more body shampoo into the toilet, but I hold the bottle at an angle and try not to look down and bring on another bout of throwing up.
I have to lever Sheryl out of bed and help her into her wheelchair. She says she’s too weak to get dressed and doesn’t care what others think of her out and about on the ship in her nightie, dressing gown, and slippers.
I strip the bed I shared last night with Sheryl and fold the sheets and Sheryl’s pillowcase in a rough pile on top of Sheryl’s suitcase. I put my pillowcase in my bag and Marta’s on top of hers, and then deal with Simone’s bedding. I’m concerned the identical towels, although we all have our special place to put them to distinguish them, have been indiscriminately grabbed to wipe mouths after the spew sessions, and I’m worried about the sharing of germs. But I’m determined not to let our hygiene standards slip, and I put our towels over respective suitcases and wardrobe door handles.
I find Sheryl’s handbag and put it on her lap. She looks a total wreck and I can’t take her out looking like that, so I grab her hairbrush from where I know she keeps it in her hand luggage and drag it several times through her hair. Now she looks much more respectable. Satisfied, I push her out into the corridor. The other four passengers are already waiting outside our door, looking seasick and miserable too. They look like they can’t wait to get into “their” cabin and lie down.
It was difficult enough walking along the corridor on my own in the rough seas, but it’s even more so pushing a wheelchair, although it does give me something to steady myself with. But it’s hard going pushing against the strong forces that are working around us, and to make a clear pathway through all the people. Every now and again, when the ship pitches in the opposite direction, the wheelchair takes off on its own and I have to run along behind it, keeping up so it won’t get away from me and crash into someone. It’s much worse than the worst fully laden supermarket trolley with a crooked wheel I’ve ever had the misfortune to try and wrangle.
Finally, making our way through the crowds, and saying
“Excuse me, excuse me,” constantly, we reach the lifts. When the doors to the first one that arrives open, I’m braced to push Sheryl in, but realize immediately it would be impossible. The lift is so packed, there is barely room for one more person to squeeze in, let alone two including a wheelchair.
“Sorry,” says one of the passengers who is trying to squash in farther to make space for us, realizing it’s impossible.
I pull the wheelchair back, the doors close, and we wait for another lift. Same deal.
Finally, another one arrives which is almost as full. I fear we will be here all day. This time, though, a middle-aged man and two young women kindly get out of the lift to leave space for us.
“Thank you so much,” Sheryl and I say simultaneously.
When we get to the breakfast room, I can tell, even though the room is crowded, it isn’t as packed as usual. Perhaps a lot of other passengers are also being put off their food by the rough seas. Sheryl says she only wants a cup of coffee, but without her usual milk, and that she can’t face eating anything. I tell her she needs to keep up her strength and that it’s best to have something in her stomach if she feels nauseous, so it has something to work on. I force her to eat a couple of pieces of bread with honey. I don’t spread on any butter as I think that might make it a bit greasy and turn her stomach again. Sheryl is fumbling in her handbag, and I ask her what she’s looking for.
“Pills,” she says. “I’m sure I had some motion sickness pills in here.”
She gives up after a while and just sits there looking miserable. I realize I need to follow my own example and try and eat something too, even though I don’t feel much like myself. The sight of a huge pile of strawberry yogurt in a large glass bowl makes me feel quite ill. I eat some dry bread and my stomach settles a bit. I think I should have a cup of tea, but the smell of it puts me off for the first time in my life. I just have a drink of water instead.
“I’ll go to the infirmary and see if I can get you some seasickness tablets,” I promise Sheryl. I can’t stand seeing her looking so unwell.
“Finish your breakfast first,” she says.
“I’ve had enough.” I don’t want to tell her I am fairly unwell myself, so I leave her sitting there and take off down to the medical center.
I’m not the first person there by far. A queue of people looking miserable, holding paper or plastic bags under their chins, streams out the door. Some of the bags look quite heavy and full. Ugh!
I give up on that and decide to go back to our original suite to get the travel sickness pills I know Mum has in her suitcase. I don’t really want to disturb the people in there, but I’ve got little choice. I think about the possibility of taking all of my family’s bags back with me to my cabin, but gathering them up and dragging them out would make so much noise and wake everyone up for sure. It would make our small cabin even more overcrowded too with all that extra luggage.
It doesn’t take me long till I’m standing outside the suite door. I feel so sad looking at the number on the door, remembering once again how we’d been so excited the first time we found it. I knock gently to be polite, but there’s no answer, so I try the door handle and it opens easily. I step into the room, which is quite dark, but there is a sliver of light coming from between the curtains that lead to the deck. It’s just enough for me to see the wardrobe, although I have a strong recollection of exactly where it is anyway. I open the wardrobe door and feel inside. I hope I won’t wake any of the passengers now, as they’ll think I’m a thief sneaking around in “their” cabin. I can hear the soft purrs of a couple of the sleepers and then a louder snore.
I know Mum’s bag has a long, plaited ribbon that looks like a colorful braid tied to the handle. She’d wanted something distinctive, so she could easily find her bag on a baggage carousel in among hundreds of similar-looking items of luggage. The first bag I touch doesn’t have anything attached to the handle, so I fumble across to the next one. I feel the familiar satin of the plaited ribbon, and tears spark into my eyes unexpectedly. I remember Mum sitting at the kitchen table in Hobart, several lengths of differently colored ribbon in front of her as she plaited her ribbon into a cord. She made ones for us too, using a different combination of ribbon colors. Much more distinctive than all the tartan ribbons passengers think make their luggage look different from the others. I mean, I know there are lots of different tartans, but how well did people really know the pattern of the tartan they had chosen when so many other cases also sported tartan ribbons? I hope this is Mum’s bag and not Rosa’s, as I don’t think Rosa has seasickness pills too. Mum had taken care of the medical stuff for all three of us. I drag out the case onto the carpet and as I do, the snorer makes an abrupt snort.
Oh no, one of them is going to wake up!
I don’t really want to have to explain what I’m doing here. I don’t want them to know who the strangers’ bags in their cabin belong too, either, for some reason.
The sleeper seems to roll over, and then settles back into a steady snore. Maybe I’m going to get away with it.
I pull the suitcase open and fumble around inside. I wish I’d thought to bring my torch, although that would probably have disturbed the sleepers anyway.
My fingers touch objects that are hard to tell apart. Shoes are easy, but the clothes are not. Nothing there, so I decide to zip open an outside pocket on the case. The sound of this zip seems even louder than the main zip, and I don’t know whether to pull it open slowly and drag out the noise but keep it quieter, or zip it open quickly and get it over and done with. I decide on the slow and quiet method. I don’t want to get sprung now that I’m almost finished in here. It seems to take forever, with a quiet rasp now and again as the zip gets caught as it slides along. Finally I get the outside pocket open, and feeling around, clasp a small box. I can feel it has raised dots on it and I remember noticing there were Braille dots on the package when Mum bought them. So I’m pretty sure this is what I’m after. I remember she’d bought several packets, though, and I think she had bound them together with a rubber band, but I can’t find anything like that and I don’t want to spend any longer in the room than I have to and get sprung.
I close the pocket and the suitcase and slide it back into the wardrobe. When I get out into the light of the corridor, I open my fist to see what’s in it and am surprised to find it’s a packet of pills, but not what I’m looking for. It’s a packet of the Pill. Was that Mum’s suitcase I had been looking in, or Rosa’s? I didn’t know Rosa was on the Pill, and I thought I knew everything about her. Or are they Mum’s, and why does she need them? She and Dad have been divorced for years. I feel really strange not knowing such an important fact. I don’t want to go back in again to try to find the seasickness tablet packets, as I’ve risked being caught enough. I’ll have another go at the medical center to see if I can get some travel sickness pills there.
When I arrive the queue has shortened, so I join it and try to relax, breathing deeply to keep the nausea down. Finally it’s my turn, and I ask for some motion sickness pills. The nurse gives some to me but says, “Don’t take too many at once. Just have the bare minimum to keep the sickness at bay. We only have a limited supply, and they’re nearly all gone.”
I take them gratefully and return to Sheryl, telling her we need to ration them carefully.
But I know I need to get back into my old suite again some time, to get more pills. Next time I’ll take my torch, so I can be sure which bag I’m looking into.
As the day progresses, the weather does not abate. It’s becoming putrid walking round the ship, as there are piles of vomit everywhere. Crew members are being dragged away from their food preparation duties (well, not as many people would feel like eating anyway, I suppose, if they’re so sick) to clean up the mess. I feel sorry for them, as some of them are heaving as they do so. They aren’t trained to do this, so it would be foul. I should volunteer to help, but I don’t want to tip the balance of me feeling almost okay now that the seas
ickness tablets have finally kicked in. I know if I start to get up close and personal with piles of puke, that maybe it won’t take too long until I’m adding to it.
I decide the best time to get into my old suite is between shifts—being up-front about what I’m doing is probably better than sneaking in while people are asleep, as they might get agitated and grab me, thinking I’m a robber. Those people who came on board have so few possessions, as all that is most important from their old lives must be in their suitcases, unlike we original cruise passengers who only have our cruise requirements with us. They might have precious photos, documents, money, or even jewelry with them that they’ll be stressed about keeping safe.
I can’t get my head around the fact that they all came on board, not knowing where they were going. I know we original passengers have been kept in the dark from the beginning so we can’t say anything and cause unrest, but the others, and there seems to be thousands of them if my maths stacks up, tell us they’d just been told to pack their most precious possessions in one suitcase and a small bag each, and when they got on the ship they had no idea where they were going. They were told the secrecy was essential, as their government didn’t want word to get out to the rest of the world about where they were heading, until it was too late to be turned back. I suppose you can’t trust at least a few among thousands of people not to spill the beans and ruin the surprise element.
I’m amazed they seem so stoic about not knowing where they’re headed, but I think they’ve had years to come to accept that they can no longer live on their islands, as the flooding from the sea-level rise is unabating. And they’d have to place their trust in their leaders that they will be taken somewhere suitable. All they know is they’re leaving their island country forever, as it’s drowning in the rising seas, and they have no real choice. I suppose any home would be better than no home, as long as you know you’ll all be staying together.
Jilda's Ark Page 8
