High Seas Drifter (Cruise Confidential 4)

by Brian David Bruns

  Yet while cast adrift in total change, something was different. My employer didn't follow my performance on Wind Surf. There was no chance of getting fired whatsoever because they simply didn't care. And now, bereft of my original goal of Bianca, neither did I. No longer would I miss ports while struggling for something greater, no longer would I pine for something just out of reach. It was time to enjoy the playground right in front of me. After all my years at sea, I finally began to experience what landlubbers imagined working on ships was like.

  In Greece alone I dined on minutes-fresh octopus at Cephalonia—not chewy at all, but delectably soft enough to cut with a fork; gazed upon the fabled home of Odysseus, the hard-sought island of Ithaca; ate kalamata olives in Kalamata itself, on the cliff-hugging streets of Monemvasia. Best of all was touring ancient Olympia. I paid homage to Zeus at the remains of his greatest temple, checking off another of the Seven Wonders of the World. More importantly, I got to run on the original playing field of the Olympics. I imagined myself kicking the ass of every competitor back in the day. Such delusions are easy when you stand nearly two feet taller than the average man of 2,800 years ago.

  And Italy? I had tasted fresh cannoli on the Aeolian island of Lipari, then after dark watched lava bubble and spew sky-high from the ever fitful volcanic island of Stromboli. I climbed the steps of Taormina's fully intact Roman amphitheater, drank espresso where the compass was invented in Amalfi, gazed upon the frescoes of Rimini, and sighed over the beauty of Positano. Speaking of sighing, what prompted more than world-famous Miracle Square in Pisa? Unless Portofino, of course; there I sipped chianti just twenty feet from George Clooney's yacht. And seeing Michelangelo's David in Florence? Botticelli's Birth of Venus in nearby Uffizi Gardens would weep from jealousy. Those Florentine visits were heady stuff: on short days I only got to visit the tombs of Machiavelli, Galileo, and Dante.

  Those were just the highlights from my first few months on Wind Surf. And—staggering to contemplate—it was only going to get better. We hadn't yet touched on France, Spain, Portugal, or Morocco. I squeezed entire days into those hours, months into those weeks, years into those months. With such overwhelming stimuli came a swelling of consciousness and, thusly, awareness. For the first time in my ship career, I was content with where I was and where I was going.

  And that's when something happened. It happened in Malta, courtesy of St. Paul.

  St. Paul was a Christian Apostle who brought Christianity to Malta nearly 2,000 years ago. It was kind of an accident. He was en route to Rome to be tried as a political rebel, but the ship carrying him was wrecked on the coast. As told by St. Luke in The Acts of the Apostles, the people of Malta graciously welcomed the survivors. But while a warming fire was lit, Paul was bitten by a poisonous snake. He suffered no ill effects, which the islanders took as a sign of his importance. This indirectly led to his invitation into the home of Publius, the Roman's chief man of the island, who was suffering a serious fever. Paul cured the man, who was so thrilled he converted to Christianity and became the first Bishop of Malta. That was all fine and dandy, but poor Paul continued on his not-so-merry way to Rome and a beheading.

  Malta has many sites dedicated to Paul across the islands, from the rocks upon which he escaped the sea to the site of Publius' house, now home to the Cathedral of Mdina. In the capital of Valletta is the Collegiate Parish Church of St. Paul—more commonly known as St. Paul's Shipwreck Cathedral. I had been lured to the site because it was noteworthy to so very many people. By the time I left, it was noteworthy to me, too—only not for the usual reason.

  I did not pay much attention to the reliquary that contained St. Paul's wrist bone or the section of marble column upon which he was beheaded. I didn't even pay much attention to the awe inspiring altar piece depicting the shipwreck, created by Paladini. Despite more noble intentions, I found myself helplessly following a blonde.

  She was a dainty, pretty thing. Very fragile, but not like a porcelain doll. Definitely not that: she was no toy to be dressed and coifed and placed upon a shelf. This woman was a wildflower; slender and pleasing to the eye, but one gust away from being lost. She was alone, wandering the cathedral for all the right reasons.

  Room to room I followed her. I didn't try to talk to her, but just enjoyed the enchantment of a pretty lady who caught my eye. It was nice to enjoy the warm sensation of liking somebody without the throb of guilt ruining the moment like a migraine at a party. It was the first time I looked at a woman other than Bianca and realized there were possibilities. Maybe the ships' elasticity of time finally did me some good, after all! Eventually she left, gone forever like a pleasant scent on a passing breeze.

  Alas, even if I felt no guilt, there was regret. So much for my sense of personal freedom. I was nothing if not pathetic. But we all shackle ourselves. I knew in my mind it was time to move on and enjoy the sights—I really was starting to—but I just couldn't switch off my regret that it didn't work with Bianca. My last ship, the stunning six star Seven Seas Mariner, would have been the perfect place for us to be together. I went through hell and hot water to get that ship for us. So many sights, so many opportunities, squandered because she said 'no'.

  Bianca had said 'no' before because the time wasn't right. I dealt with it and tried to move forward. When I finally had to say 'no' because the time wasn't right, I was left wondering how she dealt with it. She didn't mention it at all. Not one phone call, nary an email.

  My first 'no': because of the cabin, because of the ship. I couldn't provide her the better ship life I had promised, despite all my striving. I couldn't provide her the money she needed to take care of her family. That was all justified, for a man was only as good as his word. I had failed.

  But the moment I said 'no', something inside me changed. Why? Because it felt like crap to say 'no'. When she said 'no,' didn't she feel like crap? Wasn't I worth it, despite all those bad jokes?

  But she had said 'yes' when I gave her the ultimatum in Greece, 'yes' even to marriage. Surely she was just saying that to make me happy... but how did I really know that? I'd been so preoccupied with what I'd done, perhaps I forgot her side of things. I never actually gave her the chance to see Wind Surf for herself. Perhaps I wronged her.

  I had learned our ships were to meet in port. Bianca was scheduled to visit Cannes while I was in Monte Carlo. Those may be in two separate nations, but they're only a hop, skip, and a jump from each other. I'd never let international borders stop us from rendezvous past. Maybe it wasn't over just yet. Once more unto the breach, dear friend, once more; or close the wall up with passion's death!

  Part 2: Whodunit

  Travel is to discover that everyone is wrong about other countries.

  —Aldous Huxley

  Chapter 12. Cannes, France

  1

  Barney's relatives hugged tightly to their small town in the Canadian Rockies. Despite invitations to his ships for years, they'd never had the temerity to try. That all changed when his mother discovered Under the Tuscan Sun. For the first time ever, something other than Canada had merit. She wanted to see everywhere they filmed the movie—a woman after my own cinephile heart. This included Positano, which was an hour-plus boat ride beyond our port of call, Sorrento. That was too far for unworldly folks such as Ma & Pa Barney, but not for me. Thus he asked if I would escort his family to Positano.

  Cosmina was not happy at being skipped over for such an important personal favor. Barney explained that he wanted someone they would feel comfortable with—meaning if not Canadian, at least American. Like him, his parents and sister were raw-boned, folksy folks. Indeed, Barney's sister looked even more like a lumberjack than he! The weather in Positano was perfect: warm and sunny along the palm-shrouded cliffs, rainy and blotchy atop the mountain high above. We had a grand time walking upon the steep streets and sighing upon the sweet sights. As ever, I found the Amalfi Coast to be the most enchanting place on Earth.

  I wanted to share with Barney's family something di
stinctly Italian that they could take home with them. I decided to take them to a local pizzeria—one of Italy's Top 100—to teach them the differences between something Pizza Hut and something Italian.

  Though snobs may try, one cannot declare that Italian pizza is better than American pizza—or vice versa—any more than toast beats a bagel. The trunk of the pizza family tree split into two different animals. Of those parental branches—Italian and American—the latter further evolved into regional styles: New York, Detroit, Chicago, and California being the most common. Each has its own goals and merits, none being superior to another. So it is when comparing the parental branch. Though, to be fair, superiority does skew towards Italy because of America's chronic lack of quality control.

  The first lesson regarded toppings. American pizza has a whole pile of them. One could spin that it is an effort to focus upon complimentary combinations of flavors, but that's bunk: it's because more is better. Thusly, American pizza can be extremely dense, whereas Italian pizzas never are. They have only one topping, and aim to perfect it. The only way in Italy to experience multiple toppings is to order the 'quattro stagioni', or 'four seasons' pizza. But four toppings does not a supreme make, for each is given its own quadrant so that flavors need not compete.

  The second lesson was habits in the care and feeding of pizza, so to speak. Using a knife and fork on a slice is common, as is drizzling olive oil over it. Not just any olive oil, of course, but quality stuff. The dried red peppers familiar to American pizzerias are much to Italian taste, frequently used in the form of pepper-infused olive oil. Nobody in Italy shares the American habit of dumping powdered parmesan onto a pizza. That would horrify Italians, and rightly so, for Pizza Hut's parmesan cheese contains undisclosed amounts of ground up wood. In fact, the FDA has no limits on the amount of wood pulp allowed in American food—hence the superiority skewing towards Italy.

  The wonderful afternoon stretched into a gorgeous night. The return boat ride watching the sun set past the cliffs of Capri was inspiring. They all had a grand time, as did I—not to mention the gratitude of the ship's second officer. Turns out, that's something important to have.

  2

  Wind Surf's arrival to Monaco was scheduled for noon. This steep cut in port availability was offset by something truly precious: an overnight in Monte Carlo. Thus the hours prior to arrival were not at all buzzing with excitement, but rather leisurely. Taking advantage of the rare hours at sea, Janie organized a fashion show.

  "I don't just want any dumb ol' fashion show," Janie informed me. "I want to really blow them away. The theme is 'dress your fantasy life'. Look, I'm really nervous, but think I've got it all worked out. I pitched it to Francois and of course he liked it—he's gay! They love fashion stuff."

  "It's in the rulebook and everything," I agreed sarcastically. "What can I do to help?"

  "We need an ultra cool guy."

  "I am your man."

  "We have the athlete, the surfer dude, the golfer guy, and the bikini babe. Now we need Mr. Cool."

  "I am nothing if not Mr. Cool."

  "You'll wear a Tommy Bahama shirt, Tommy Bahama shorts, Tommy sandals, and a Tommy watch. You'll have a martini and a cigar."

  I raised an eyebrow. "So how does this vary from everyday?"

  She frowned, then handed me some baby blue sweatpants. So much for my moment of fashion glory.

  Before the appointed hour, we participants milled about in the gift shop. Janie's assistant, Melanie, gently moaned in a corner. She drooped as heavily as her natural red curls. Melanie's role in the show was to model a dress or two: a mercifully simple assignment considering the magnitude of her hangover. Janie, by contrast, buzzed around everywhere. She was ever the cheerleader, pumping everybody up with words of enthusiasm: 'Hang ten!' to surfer dude, 'Hole in one!' to golfer guy, and an awe-struck, 'You look hot!' to bikini babe. I perked up at that, but wasn't rewarded with sight of her because she was changing in the office. Luckily for us all, bikini babe was to be played by the gift shop's latest addition: the undeniably buxom Nina.

  "Okay, people!" Janie said, clapping her hands. "It's time! We've got a packed house, so let's go out there and strut our stuff! Whoo hoo! Let's DO IT!"

  Kicking open the doors, Janie ran out, arms waving. Her demeanor was nothing less than that of a champion quarterback running out into a packed stadium. But instead of a raging crowd there was nothing but silence of the patiently waiting. Her team dribbled out after her.

  The main lounge had been cleared to create a runway, the tables and chairs rearranged accordingly. A hundred curious guests sipped coffee or mimosas, waiting. Janie bounded up to the stage and took up the microphone. Beside her was the keyboard player from the new band, Nigel. He brushed back his long, blond hair and smiled charmingly, unfazed by his own crooked teeth. Nigel had the leathery countenance of an aged rock star, which suited him well.

  "Good morning, everybody!" Janie squealed. Though the speaker projected her voice, she needed no such amplification. Her enthusiasm easily reached into every corner. It was not exactly reciprocated by the audience, however. Half the audience were hen-pecked husbands who looked downright bored. This did not deter Janie in the slightest. She was experienced at getting crowds going, and going is indeed how she got the crowd. Somehow—I still don't know how, though I watched the entire process—Janie revved up a hundred middle-to-late-aged, upper class men and women. She whipped them into a downright froth. Monte Carlo be damned, they were here to see a fashion show, a fashion show for the ages!

  Nigel had prepared perfect music accompaniment. He began with Madonna's 'Vogue', wherein the sexy Nina sauntered out in large sunglasses, an even larger floppy hat and—Hallelujah—a dental floss-thin bikini. If the husbands had been secretly harboring any doubts about a fashion show as entertainment, Nina completely blasted them out of the water. Even Francois stared, impressed.

  A series of dresses were displayed by both Nina and Melanie in turns. Eddie took his turn as golfer guy, wherein Nigel played the theme to Caddyshack. The applause was honest, and people were having a good time. Janie beamed and bounced. Her show was already a genuine success, but the real coup was about to come. For somehow, amazingly, Janie had procured the strutting services of none other than a senior officer.

  To the tune of Rod Steward's 'Do You Think I'm Sexy,' out came none other than the Second Officer himself, the strapping Barney. He played Tommy Bahama, suavely posing upon an imaginary beach. He checked his watch, then delightfully realized it was happy hour. Handed a martini and a cigar, he worked them both like a natural.

  The crowd went absolutely crazy for Barney, amazed a senior officer could be so playfully self-effacing. He was an undeniably handsome fellow, but my sour grapes insisted he was too rugged for a convincing beach jet-setter. The audience obviously did not agree. He tried departing, but they noisily demanded an encore. When he obliged, Nigel smoothly moved into the James Bond theme. I grudgingly admitted Barney was indeed the Sean Connery of James Bond. But I was the Pierce Brosnan, dammit.

  The perfect foil for Barney's lumberjack manliness followed. Yoyo came strutting out in a little sailor outfit surely meant for children. He was so petite it almost fit him—almost. The shirt revealed his belly and the shorts became short shorts, or should I say hot pants? He could not have been more feminine if he'd been wearing roller skates and seductively washing a car. Nigel appropriately began keying the Village People's 'In the Navy' to a roar of approval.

  I was last. Though not entirely enthusiastic about my role, I was a team player and consummate ham. Donned in baby blue sweat pants and matching Wind Surf hoodie, and sporting a fuzzy white headband, I jogged out onto the runway. I toted my gym bag as dynamically as one can tote a gym bag. Not knowing what else to do, I pranced around like an idiot. Audience applause plummeted. Nothing emanated from the throng except, perhaps, the chirping of a lonely cricket. Janie urged me into action from on high. But what to do? How does one rock sweat pants and a hoodie?
Did she want me to play with the zipper on my jacket, or what? As if I didn't already recognize my failure, the synthesizer moved into Right Said Fred's catwalk mocking 'I'm Too Sexy.'

  All told, the show was a big hit. Everybody had a grand, silly time. It reminded me of the old sailor days of long voyages, far from land. The crew would perform plays for the officers, Shakespeare and whatnot. The ladies' roles would be portrayed by men in drag, using mops for wigs and sewing extra sailcloth into dresses. While our show featured no such cross dressers, the good-natured goofiness was equally evident. After the show, Janie basked in the congratulations offered by audience and officers alike. She was particularly keen to hear what Francois had to say, but he had disappeared... Yoyo in tow.

  3

  Walking up the incline towards the train depot in Monte Carlo, I turned back to look down at the Wind Surf. She was a half circle of harbor away. Compared to the luxury yachts filling the smooth waters row upon row upon row, the world's largest sailing vessel looked huge. But she wasn't. My stomach roiled at the recollection of first setting foot upon her. It had roiled then, too.

  'Where's the handover documentation?' I had asked the departing—nay, fleeing—auctioneer. He had replied, 'I didn't do any. Doesn't matter. No employees. No auctions. No sales. Ever. Wait'll you hear about the auctioneer before me'—meaning blind old Gertie—'It'll blow your god damn mind.'