"Your grandfather was a sailor, then?" I asked, impressed. "Old school, with sails and all? My father spent four years in the U.S. Navy but was stationed in the middle of the desert in New Mexico, if you can believe that. He only went to sea one day. Of course, he still got a sailor's tattoo."
"Of course," Ardin repeated with a slight grin. "Both my father and grandfather loved being sailors. They loved being a living part of our heritage as the world's great seafarers. My grandfather started on sailing vessels when he was fourteen years old. Some were still hauling cargo as late as the war, but were phased out because they couldn't outrun U-boats."
"Incredible," I said. "I thought the age of sail was gone way, way back."
"Mostly," Ardin agreed. "My grandfather would tell me stories about it. Usually he was even more pragmatic than my father, rarely finding the beauty in anything. But not when it came to life under sail. He would get poetic about how they lived balanced between air and water, one with the elements. Their schedules were as unpredictable as the weather. In good wind they would sometimes sail around the clock, even up to a week. Everyone worked four hour shifts, one off and one on, for twenty four hours a day. Other times it would lay up in a calm for days on end, with nothing to do but wait. Not very practical in a modern business world. But then, there are always seafaring entrepreneurs in Holland. My father was in shipping, too, and wanted me to follow, but I'm artistically inclined. Serving as photographer on the world's largest sailing vessel seemed like a good medium."
"The Wind Surf is the world's largest sailing vessel?" I asked, surprised. Having only met Ardin the day before, I sure was learning a lot from him. A pragmatic artist was someone I wanted to get to know.
"She and her sister Club Med 2," Ardin said. "They displace 15,000 tons. Some of the replicas of big ships look a lot bigger with all their sails aloft, but they are in fact far lower and lighter. Most are less than half the weight, which is actually all that counts."
"Still the biggest ship I saw," Yoyo breathed.
"For being 10,000 kilometers from home," Ardin said drily, "You haven't been around much."
"How about you, Yoyo? Any sailors in your family?"
"No," he answered simply. He did not elaborate.
"I will miss the romance of being under sail," Ardin continued. "I was happy on Wind Surf, but will be happier at home with my wife in Vietnam."
"Your wife is Vietnamese?" I asked, surprised. Ardin's great height must tower over an Asian body! But I understood the burning, consuming desire for something different. It burns hot. It burns out. But I focused on the positive by saying, "That's my favorite thing about working at sea. It breaks down boundaries completely."
"My future wife is foreign," Yoyo popped up.
"Future wife?" I repeated, somewhat dubiously. "That's the phrase I use regarding Angelina Jolie."
Yoyo glanced up and down the steep road, but all was quiet. No stampede seemed eminent, so he awkwardly fished from his pocket a folded, dogeared photo. He reached out across the shifting mules to show me.
"She's gorgeous!" I complimented upon sight of the young vixen. She was a petite Asian with a round face and dark, beautiful eyes.
"She lives in China," Yoyo said, replacing the photo. "We met online."
Ardin tried unsuccessfully to hide a harrumph. Fortunately Yoyo was too preoccupied with saddle maneuvers to hear him.
"And you, Brian?" Yoyo eventually asked.
"The whole reason I'm at sea was to be with a woman," I replied from habit. While true, there seemed to be a whole lot more to the story now, a whole lot more I didn't want to talk about. I glanced down at the Wind Surf, reflecting on how so very, very tiny it looked. It looked equally tiny even close up. "We were here in Greece together just a week ago. I proposed to her here, in a manner of speaking. She even said yes."
"So she'll be joining you soon, then!" Yoyo exclaimed.
"Ships are no place for couples," I said rather sharply. More softly I explained, "She's vacationing with her parents in Romania."
"Romania?" Ardin repeated with evident surprise. It was perhaps the most emotion I had seen since meeting him.
"Yes," I said. "Transylvania. Beautiful country."
He paused before responding, then politely said, "I'm sure."
I chuckled at his obvious effort at restraint. He looked slightly relieved and added, "There's a Romanian woman on Surf you'll meet soon. She's... something else."
"A more qualified statement has rarely been uttered," I said.
Ardin's face blanched a bit, no doubt recalling an unpleasant memory, before returning to his usual neutrality. "She hates me, so do yourself a favor and don't mention my name."
"Oh? Why is that?"
"I won't give her what she wants," Ardin said simply. His lips quivered into a hint of a smile and he added, "Ask her if she's found her socks yet."
I was about to inquire further, but was distracted by a visitor from above. A shaggy, brown dog of monstrous proportions came running pell-mell down the road, barking furiously. Even before he met up with our herd, the mules decided this was the catalyst for resuming the descent. Onward and downward we spiraled to the Wind Surf.
2
The small tender boat muscled through the waves with noisy purpose. I was pressed against the scratched window because both Ardin and Waryo shared the two-seat bench with me. Such was the lot of crew: we were given the tiny bits of space the passengers didn't want. I stared at the crystalline waters, wondering why their soothing blueness did not soothe. The mist had burned off, letting the sun stab as deep as it cared to. My gaze followed the shimmering spears of light down, down into the darkness. It was very conducive to reflection.
I tried to be as enthusiastic about the Surf as Ardin. I really did. But where he saw a glorious handful of tall masts I saw a measly handful of passenger decks. That's it. Not thirteen decks, each spanning a whopping 120 feet in width, but just six, measuring a mere 66. Ardin was an artist, so money did not concern him much. I was an art dealer, so money concerned me greatly. In my business, bodies equaled money, and Surf didn't carry many. To date I had been modestly successful at my job working on ships. Within a couple months of starting I had been given a ship with 3,000 passengers. Now I got 300.
What was I doing here?
The answer, of course, was that my priority had never been my career and it finally caught up with me. I had come to sea three years ago for one reason: to be with my girlfriend. Ships were her game, so they became mine. She was that magnetic. Bianca was a vivacious and vigorous woman the sun itself set for, seemingly humbled by her excitement at returning to her element of choice, the night. At night she could dance and drink freely, well into the small hours, until exhaustion overcame her. Only then did the sun dare venture back over the world. Bianca's proximity had always been how I gauged my success. Needless to say, my employers had different criteria. I had pushed things too far, too long. Fate finally pushed back, and nobody can out-muscle life.
Suddenly the entrancing light was cut off. I looked up as the shadow of Wind Surf overcame all.
I'd already slaved below decks as a lowly waiter and enjoyed the high life as a three stripe officer, honorary as the rank may have been. What new could Wind Surf teach? Turns out, quite a bit. Crewing the world's largest sailing vessel was a completely new experience. Because she was so small compared to the mega cruise ships—over a thousand officers and crew on those—interaction here with officers was far more often and far more intimate—as were the difficulties among the crew. For the first time my job and personal goals were trumped by my surroundings.
Wind Surf was not merely a floating resort staffed by cheap labor for mass consumption, oh no. She was akin to the fabled sailing life of old. And thusly, perhaps inevitably, she defined my entire outlook as a sailor. I, too, became of the sea.
It didn't start that way, of course. My big ship experiences had to be expunged, a process both painfully fast and thoroughly disheartening.
But once freed of stresses regarding my career or my relationship—both obviously now over—once I became of the sea, like the Surf herself, I soared on the wind. I learned new things every single day, about the ship, about the world, about myself. Life was as good as I could possibly imagine it, my highest of highs.
Yet Wind Surf would be my last ship. Our parting was not a good one. It wasn't just the lawsuit that haunted me after leaving, though that ran into five figures. What made my end at sea so heart wrenching was the humiliation, the indignation. The betrayal. The sea lives up to her notoriety as a harsh mistress. I am ever invigorated by her. I am forever haunted by her.
Chapter 2. Portoferraio, Elba
1
Directly behind Wind Surf's small reception desk in the stern, port side, lay the Photo Gallery. Such galleries on big ships leaned towards large affairs with numerous spotlights, but little Surf's was only a glorified corridor accessing the aft pool. The entire back wall and door were glass. The early morning sunlight shot through horizontally like a floodlight, turning displayed photographs into checkered, blinding panels of glossy squares.
"You're late," Ardin admonished, not even bothering to raise his gaze from a glass display counter of photo albums.
"Good morning to you, too," I replied, amused.
Ardin's head snapped up, eyeglasses catching the sun with a flash. I had to look away from the brilliance. The Mediterranean sun was amazingly direct—very different from the ambling, moisture-laden light of the Caribbean I knew so well.
"My apologies," he said. "I thought you were Yoyo. I didn't expect anyone else here this early."
"Haven't seen him," I muttered before launching into complaint. "Is it always this hot in here?"
"Now you sound American," Ardin deadpanned. I was in no mood for it, and said as much.
"It was not a rebuke," he defended lightly, "Rather an observation. Americans place a premium on comfort, even at any given moment. By this afternoon it will feel like I'm in Vietnam a week early."
His nod indicated the back wall, where scratches and whorls blazed with snagged light. The door leading to the pool deck was merely an uninsulated panel of glass. Worse, it was warped to prevent fully closing. Humidity wafted in almost visibly. Should the need for battening down the hatches arrive, the photos had much to fear.
Ardin shook his head ruefully and added, "I wonder if I should stay on Surf, though. I don't know how my little brother is going to survive."
"I thought your wife was Vietnamese," I said, frowning. "Isn't Yoyo from Java?"
Ardin smiled, apparently enjoying a fleeting thought of his beloved. "She is. I was not implying Yoyo is related to her. God no. But we're all family here."
"Here," I repeated warily. "On the Surf, you mean."
"Wind Surf is not like other ships," Ardin agreed.
I was beginning to chafe at reminders of how this ship was so different from the norm. Ardin was easily the fourth person I'd heard make such a comment. It made me even more anxious to get back to the big ships, to resume my life. I changed pitch by nudging, "Yo's that bad?"
Ardin grimaced. "He has no concept of selling to his audience. Have you seen his fingernails? Or nail, rather, courtesy of a mule. Most westerners live in a homogenous culture. Yoyo becomes the curiosity. You don't want the guest focusing on the salesman, but rather what he's selling. It is my responsibility to ensure my replacement is up to the task. He is woefully inadequate."
"If he was a good photographer it wouldn't matter, but...," Ardin continued, gesturing to the panel of photographs. "Guess which are his."
A mere glance clearly revealed Ardin's meaning. Ardin's portraits showed guests standing straight, smiling into the camera, the gleam of joy crisp and clear. The latter images were almost entirely out of focus. Yet this was a good thing, for blurry faces maintain anonymity. Far more damning was the guests' lack of forewarning. The result was that Yoyo created an exhaustive—if fuzzy—visual library of embarrassing facial expressions. It was a veritable doctoral thesis on mouths agape, each blur a new and interesting hole in someone's head. One man was even picking his nose.
"You mentioned we would see something worthy this morning?" I asked, presuming it was not that last, hideous photo.
"Ah, yes," Ardin said, stepping from around the counter. A turquoise polo shirt struggled on his tall, spare frame. It was obvious that a ship of Surf's size did not have the abundant resources to anticipate a man of Ardin's stature. "We will meet the Wind Star this morning."
"And?"
"And that is rare," he explained. "There are only three ships in the fleet."
"And?"
Ardin paused to regard me. With his thick glasses, hands clasped behind his back, and greater height bending down to look over me, he evoked a scolding teacher.
"Because we are not as big as other fleets does not imply we are lesser," Ardin chided gently. "Indeed, I say it promotes value. There are only three small ships plying all seven seas. Meeting up with a sister is cause for celebration."
He then added, most gravely, "Live a little."
Ardin gathered up his camera and bag of lenses, then gestured to the glowing door. He said brusquely, "Yoyo can find us if he wants to learn his job."
I followed him past the pool and up to the top level, the Star Deck. I was still unused to seeing the two sides of the ship so very close together. Three classic Cadillacs, bumper to bumper, were literally the same width. Compare that to Carnival Ecstasy, which parked classic cars on the promenade as mere decorations! Until I set foot on a real sailing vessel, with necessarily narrow beam, I hadn't realized just how much modern cruise liners felt like hotels.
"Elba," Ardin said, gesturing to the nearing island of low mountains, abundant flowers, and piles of orange-tiled houses.
"Elba?" I repeated. "As in 'Napoleon's exile' Elba?"
"Yes," he said. "When he escaped here, he went on to ravage the whole of Europe. We will pass directly beneath the smaller of his two palaces here."
The waters narrowed as the island's rugged flanks closed in to form a natural harbor. To our right, past the deep blue, past a slight ribbon of translucent blue-green, then finally past a shifting of sand, rose Elba. Atop a rise and nestled among snarls of vibrant green zig-zagged a centuries-old perimeter of stone. The wall of twenty or more feet hugged the island's edge closely, rising with it to cap a hill at the bay's entrance. From our vantage on deck six, we could just barely see past the wall and into the compound. The garden inside was laid in the forced symmetry the French preferred, enclosed by a cream-colored two-story building and attendant wings. Orange tiles capped all.
"Napoleon's house," Ardin observed. His camera clicked away.
"This is where he was exiled?" I repeated, stunned. "Guess I'm damned with freedom."
Ardin grinned and said, "Royalty live on another plane entirely from us mere mortals. We'll tour his palace later. You'll be fascinated to see his personal furniture and wardrobe. His famous French Marshal's hat is there. You'll see all manner of his things."
"Not his penis, though."
Ardin slowly lowered his camera to look at me. An eyebrow raised.
"It's in New Jersey," I explained helpfully.
Seeing that Ardin was not, in fact, satisfied with my clarification, I continued. "A urologist there has it in his private museum. Saving body parts of great men was in vogue in the 1800's. What, you think I'd make something like that up?"
Ardin's expression was unreadable.
"I mentally file away things like that for moments such as this," I continued into the conversation's sudden vacuum. Then hastily added, "I'm great at parties."
After a further moment of processing, Ardin just shrugged and said, "I can't compete with your connection to Napoleon's penis, but I do have a connection. He gave my family our name."
"What do you mean?"
"When Napoleon occupied the Netherlands, we had no surnames. We all knew who we were—it's a small country—but the inva
ding French couldn't keep track of us. So at his orders they assigned us family names. Before was 'Bob, son of Frank,' and after it became Bob Frankson. That would have been fine, but they also just made things up at random. My family was henceforth known as Prein. Do you know what Prein means? It's the sole of a shoe."
"And people whine about today's politicians," I mused.
"Look," Ardin said, indicating the opposite direction with his camera. "Wind Star approaches."
Off the port stern an approaching ship cut cleanly through the water, low and sleek and glistening white. Though she moved towards the harbor mouth under motor power, her magnificence as a sailing ship was undeniable. She had a gentle, curving line that rose in the bow and the stern, that classic deck line of tall ships called the sheer. Wind Star's sheer rose up in front with a subtle and compound curve, up and out of the water, to flatten and sharpen into a classic pointed clipper bow. She cut the blue like a swordfish leaping atop the waves, with the unmistakable grace of wind ships of yore.
For Wind Star, though built in 1986, was of those romantic tall ships. She was envisioned by a savvy Scandinavian whose family had been tall ship owners since time immemorial in the cold, glacier scarred granite islands of the Baltic, designed from the keel up by the old school shipwrights of the Wärtsila Shipyard in Helsinki, and finally assembled by the craftsmen and polytechniciens of the ACH shipyards in Le Havre on the Normandy coast. She looked nothing like a modern cruise ship, with squared bulk muscling under orders through the water at a criminal twenty-plus feet per gallon of fuel. Wind Star danced for the pure joy of it.
Yet Wind Star was also a modern ship, the first full-sized sailing vessel built in generations. The French designed computer programs to unfurl her sails and orient her booms so she could react to dangers at sea faster than any crew. And, unimaginable to her predecessors, her computers were designed to operate with a panic threshold of merely eight degrees angle of heel. To yachtsmen, such a heel is utterly insignificant, but modern psychological studies had identified that any angle steeper than eight degrees set off visual alarms in the average passenger's brain that the ship was going over. Thus Wind Star's computers never allowed her to go over that heel, even when tacking the wind.
High Seas Drifter (Cruise Confidential 4) Page 2
