High Seas Drifter (Cruise Confidential 4)

by Brian David Bruns

  So said Joseph Conrad. He was quite right. For the first time drifting the high seas, I was truly comfortable in every sense of the word. And, with the next port, it would come to an end. All good things must come to an end. After nearly three years of auctioneering, I had finally found a ship that was unmistakably mine. I had stayed on her longer than the usual contract for auctioneers, so organizing my vacation seemed prudent. Sundance was happy to send me back to the world's largest sailing vessel, 'cause I was killin' it. So how cool was that? A week and a half to relax before my vacation. After six weeks I'd be back with the family. Yes, I unabashedly referred to my fellow Wind Surfers as family.

  Nothing but blue, blue, blue. It's like being in a prison cell: nothing to change the view, hour after hour, day after day, week after week. Some people just couldn't handle the lack of distraction. One such person was Jeff, the auctioneer I'd taken Wind Surf from. He had worked two week-long cruises in the Caribbean, then the two-week crossing. After only seven sea days he'd already sent in his resignation.

  One poor soul who had trouble handling the confining crossing was Nigel. Oh, he had no problem whatsoever with the quiet. In fact, that's all he wanted. He just couldn't get it. For poor, poor Nigel was hounded day and night by Mr. 101. This bizarre passenger made his presence known on the very first day of the cruise. During a pause between sets, the heavyset, balding man rushed up to the keyboard and jabbed his hand into Nigel's face.

  "You're the keyboard player?" he asked—stating the obvious—"I'm something of a musician myself. I have composed one hundred and one songs."

  "That's wonderful," Nigel said. "I'm always happy to meet a fellow music enthus—"

  "A hundred and one!"

  "Indeed."

  "We should get together and listen to them," the rotund man said. "Where is the band's after party?"

  Nigel was a proper Englishman, which meant he was unfailingly polite. He tried desperately to parry Mr. 101's blustering self-invitations, but was unable to shake him. By the end of that first night he had already accepted a CD of songs and promised to find a way to integrate them into their musical sets. To say that the music was amateurish was an understatement of gross proportions. It was so incredibly horrible that it brought the listener to tears. The next day Nigel, who always shared music with me, played the first track of the CD for me.

  "Listen to the whole thing in its entirety," Nigel guided. "You'll think it's hideously repetitive and boring—which it is—but at the end... well, listen."

  One didn't need to be a musician to see just how right Nigel was. The odd mixture of synthesized sounds were indeed repetitive—and noisy. It was like a child had thrown a tantrum on an electronic keyboard, then hit repeat. It was so absurd I couldn't help but laugh. But it got worse. Just when the stupid thing was over, Mr. 101 added his special touch: duck quacks. I'm not kidding. It was freakin' hilarious.

  "I promised to use some of his music for the fashion show," Nigel sighed. "It was the only way to get him out of my face. Needless to say, I won't."

  Nigel never told me how he got out of it—for Mr. 101 was in attendance, puffed up and proudly waiting for his moment to shine. When I later pressed him, Nigel just smiled.

  Yes, Mel did another fashion show, another 'look your fantasy life'. She was incredibly nervous, just as Janie was before her. Alas, Barney was not available for Mr. Cool, so this time I played it. What did I wear? What else? What I wore every day, accoutered complete with cigar and martini. Mel showed me exactly as I was. That's when it really struck me.

  I was living my fantasy life. Whoa!

  My time at sea had been filled with so many different types of trials and tribulations, I'd rarely had a chance to slow down and reflect on whether or not I was happy. Had I been pressed, most of the time I'd have probably admitted 'no'. I'm not a negative person, by any stretch of the imagination, but was always struggling for loftier goals, always just out of reach. But not any more. On Wind Surf I was really, truly happy. I loved what I was doing—for a change—and certainly loved where I was doing it. And I felt loved.

  Love, of course, is what got me here in the first place. I would not have gone out to sea for anything less. After four years, I finally found it. Not in the way I had hoped, but as part of a family. Can't complain about that!

  No, no longer was I chasing a woman who made me happy. True, our highs were higher than anything I'd seen outside of Hollywood, and our lows commensurate. Actually, after the initial horror of being a political pawn in the restaurants of Carnival Cruise Lines, there really weren't any lows. Just gaps. Long gaps. In the end, they were too long. So while I started out at sea for Bianca, I ended up at sea for me. That's what let me heal, and heal quickly. I didn't regret a minute of my journey, though certainly the chase was not a way to live a life. Happiness cannot be given, though it must be accepted. And now, finally, I was following my own advice: make yourself happy first, then find someone to share it with.

  Whodathunkit?

  While the fashion show was silly fun enjoyed by all, the great highlight of the Transatlantic cruise was surely the Captain's Ball. Captain Turner himself, having recently returned from vacation and in the company of Mrs. Turner, was to personally host the gathering. Everyone came out in their finest formalwear. This was only the second time I'd worn my tuxedo—a good thing, too, because it was in sore need of justifying its expense. The main lounge managed to somehow pack in every guest aboard. In that chaos, a small cluster of the ship's elite hovered near the bar.

  "Brian!" Francois called to me from the crowd. He waved me over with a flash of gold. "Join us for something special."

  Noting how he was attended by Captain and Mrs. Turner, Chief Officer Emmet, and the cruise director, Fabrice, it was hard to refuse such an invitation.

  "I presume you've never tasted Rémy Martin's Louis XIII cognac," Francois said. He indicated a gorgeous bottle cradled gently in the white gloved hands of the bartender. "A blend of France's very best grapes from the Champagne region, aged in centuries-old oak casks. Named after the king enthroned at the time Rémy Martin first moved to Champagne, King Louis XIII."

  With great flair, Francois took up a snifter from the bar and, tapping it with a nail, held it up to my ear. The sound resonating was the most pure note I'd ever heard in my entire life.

  "Only the best crystal," Francois said proudly, "For a cognac designed and blended for kings—who, incidentally, are about the only ones who can afford it!"

  The bartender poured me a glass. I swirled it lovingly, noting the legs were thick and delicious to the eyes. The flavor was stunning. There was no mistaking that it was designed for royalty. It was head and shoulders better than anything I had ever imagined. I had been sure Francois only invited me over because I was in my tuxedo. Now I could definitely say it had paid for itself, fitting and all.

  "Note zee bottle," Fabrice said. "Zee crystal notches on zee side deter theft. Ze bottle alone is worth many hundreds of dollairs."

  Captain Turner nosed his snifter delicately. After a moment, he mused, "Being that this is not single malt scotch, I defer to the nose of our resident Frenchmen."

  "Ees vairy complicated bouquet," Fabrice offered. "Ze tongue ees vairy sweet, vairy mellow. But ze parfoom ees bold, with 'ints of jasmine and sandalwood."

  "What do you think, love?" Captain Turner asked his wife.

  "It does remind me of jasmine," Mrs. Turner agreed. With a self-effacing laugh, she added, "But only because Fabrice said it first!"

  Suddenly Rick materialized from the crowd. He was not dressed in formalwear, but in an old T-shirt that barely stretched over his beer belly. He moved with the greatly emphasized gestures of someone three sheets to the wind and trying to hide it. Every gesture was grandly—and comically—overcompensated. He marched stiffly right up to the bar, no doubt unaware of elbowing us all out of the way. He reached out and plucked the crystal bottle off the bar. As he pulled back, his entire body wavered alarmingly. All eyes were o
n the expensive bottle as Rick careened backward. Several of us tensed, ready to make a grab for it should he let it fall.

  But Rick didn't let it fall. He brought the bottle up to sniff the bouquet, even accidentally sticking his nose in it. When he pulled back, nose dripping with cognac, he raised his eyebrows all the way up into his hairline in an effort to appear reflective.

  "Amazing!" he blurted. "I detect leather. Yes, leather, but with a hint of something else... something special."

  He closed his eyes and inhaled very, very deeply.

  "Yeeessss," he breathed, as if in a trance. "Lady saddle."

  Mrs. Turner gasped. Without missing a beat Captain Turner, placing an arm around her, guided his wife away. They disappeared into the crowd, leaving the rest of us staring at Rick in shock. He was about to guzzle some Louis XIII straight from the bottle when Francois snatched it from his hand. Though the hotel director was obviously furious, he managed to control his temper.

  "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded of the gleefully unaware drunkard.

  "I don't do parties," Rick slurred back happily, "Least not any I've been invited to!"

  Emmet, meanwhile, had quietly motioned for security. Moments later Rick was being escorted away. I watched them go and Emmet, on his way past, said contemptuously to me, "Next time control your friend."

  I stared after them, almost as aghast as Mrs. Turner. Francois recapped the cognac and handed it over to the bartender. After giving me a meaningful look, he, too, walked away. I wasn't sure what had just happened. Was I somehow being held responsible for this incident? Turns out, yes. The mysterious lurker of Wind Surf was about to reach out from the shadows to strike again—to strike me.

  2

  The following morning Francois called me to his office. Though I was absolutely comfortable with Francois, being called into his office gave me a hint of nerves. Whenever a figure with authority called me into their inner sanctum, something was triggered, something deep in the reptilian part of my brain: fight or flight. Of course he was going to talk about last night. But was I going to be somehow held accountable? That's what it felt like. But I wasn't the drunk, crass idiot who came uninvited!

  Francois sat behind his desk casually. He motioned for me to take a seat. After a rattle of golden bracelets, he clasped his hands and leaned forward.

  "I need your help," he said. "I'm having trouble communicating with Rick. I've been watching him for awhile, but last night was an unacceptable escalation."

  "I quite agree, but I'm not sure how I can help you."

  After a moment of musing, Francois leaned back and said, "Unlike some of my colleagues, I don't think Rick is just an undisciplined child. I don't know exactly why. He's pathetic, yes, but not a man to be dismissed. To do so would be to dismiss whatever so haunted him, and he is indeed a man haunted. All that said, though, have you any idea how to handle him? You're his friend."

  "Friend?" I said, surprised. "I wouldn't go that far."

  "I see you drinking with him a lot," Francois pointed out.

  "Well, I'll have a social drink with him, for sure. And obviously he has begun continuing on toward excess. I have nothing to do with that, and have never really understood alcoholism. I don't like being around it any more than any other man."

  "Yet you judge a man by the company he keeps."

  There it was again. Emmet had said something the night before in a very similar vein. I didn't like being classified in such a manner. Why not judge me on my work performance? My volunteerism? Why must I be judged by something I can't control and doesn't adversely affect anything?

  "I wish I could help you," I said, rather dismissively. "I don't know how to reach Rick. All I know is that someone with an alcohol problem on ships is like a bull in a china shop."

  "Or a lamb to the slaughter," Francois corrected.

  I left, swallowing hard. For the first time I was worried Francois didn't think much of me. That was a shame. Yet I, too, judged a man by the company he kept. I resolved to stop doing that because, upon reflection, I'd spent most of my ship time with a rogue's gallery! But flirting with the dark side, and being surrounded by others who succumb to it, doesn't mean I was out of control. Since escaping the Carnival Cruise Lines restaurants, I was a social drinker; nothing more. In the words of the great Sir Winston Churchill, "I've gotten more out of alcohol than alcohol's gotten out of me." Yet, as stated, those around me did succumb. Rick cracked during the Transatlantic. Upon setting foot ashore, he shattered.

  Rick didn't make it back from our first port of call, Barbados. He'd gone on a bender and passed out. Wind Surf sailed without him. Oh, he got aboard the next day by taking a ferry to the next port, St. Lucia, but it was too late by then. He was fired on the spot. His departure wasn't cause for concern. It was inevitable. This wasn't like the mysterious firing of Janie and Eddie and the attempted firing of Yoyo. No, Rick wasn't a victim of the phantom firer.

  I was.

  The chief officer ordered me into his office at six o'clock in the morning. At first I thought it might have something to do with Rick as well, but why would he call me in so early? Six sharp in the a.m. could easily be considered punishment. His office was not large, though it was significantly bigger than anyone else's save Francois'. Unlike the hotel director, however, Emmet shared his office with two other senior officers. They were not present at the early hour, though their inhabitance was clearly visible from all the dirty coffee mugs. Emmet's desk was overwhelmed with paperwork filed, paperwork not filed, and stacked binders of still more paper.

  "Good morning, Emmet," I said cheerily. I was always at my most chipper in the morning.

  "Have a seat," he said, indicating a small wooden chair. "You missed boat drill."

  "Boat drill?" I repeated, surprised. "I've never done boat drill."

  "Your predecessor surely informed you that it is required prior to transferring to a new part of the world?"

  "I see," I replied. "No, he didn't. His handover was an insult. I'm sorry."

  "I'm sure you can understand why someone in your position needs to be certified," Emmet explained with his usual kindness. "Well, not certified, but on a small ship we need everyone. You obviously understand that because you help out with fire drills and shore excursions and such. Not to mention a lot of the guys here are foreigners and having a native English speaker is a huge asset in a crisis."

  "Of course, of course," I said. "When I return I'll make sure I'm on top of it."

  I wasn't particularly happy to do boat drill—who was? But Emmet was being cool about the whole thing. No big deal. I waited for him to continue, but he paused to ponder. After a few moments I tentatively asked, "... is there anything I need to do? Or is that all?"

  Emmet's expression turned sour. His entire demeanor changed before my very eyes. In a tight voice he commented, "I'm tired of you shirking your duties."

  "Shirking my duties?" I repeated, surprised. "I'm not aware—"

  "How could you be?" Emmet interjected. "How could you be aware of anything when you're busy playing video games?"

  Now with obvious confusion, I asked, "Video games? I haven't played a video game in years. I have no idea what you're talking about."

  "So many things you could be doing and aren't," Emmet continued with an incredibly derogatory tone. I was sure he wasn't talking about failure to eat my vegetables first. "You're a bad influence on the crew."

  "I'm a bad influence on the crew?" I repeated, shocked. "What, for volunteering my free time to multiple other departments? You just mentioned fire drills and shore excursions. I also help out on the sports deck—"

  "Were you there when Eddie nearly killed two passengers?" Emmet pressed, most cruelly. "Or were you too busy playing video games then, too?"

  "What is with this video game shit?" I asked, utterly flabbergasted. I couldn't believe Emmet was laying into me like this.

  "You sit comfortably in the lounge all day long, playing on your computer," the chief officer s
aid in both explanation and rebuke.

  "You think that just because I'm on the computer... I'm playing games?" I asked, incredulous. "Why on Earth... because I'm wearing headphones? That's a crazy assumption!"

  "You're not working," Emmet calmly retorted. "Or you'd be sitting at your desk, selling art. I have serious difficulty with your contract, considering how much you work. I don't understand your role here."

  "My role is to bring in revenue," I said firmly. "And I do it without a desk. I bring in more revenue than the casino or the gift shop or the bar."

  "Those are necessary ship systems," Emmet dismissed with a wave.

  "And bringing in money isn't necessary? If you felt that way, why didn't you attack the previous auctioneer? He sold two thousand dollars worth of art last crossing. I've already sold over seventeen!"

  But Emmet didn't seem to hear a word I said. He just continued irritably, "I don't want my hard working crew seeing you relaxing in the lounge all day and having drinks every night. Why don't you help me paint the rails? There's plenty to do."

  "So my volunteering for three extra departments isn't good enough for you?" I retorted, now very much angry. "You need me to do manual labor as well? How 'bout old Gertie? You ask her to pitch in, too? Oh, that's right. She never made her goals even once in years. But there's that horrible Brian, exceeding sales goals and volunteering to give Barney's family a personal tour of Positano."

  Emmet asked quietly, "Did you take them to a bar?"

  I stared at him, mouth agape like a fish.

  "Did you take them to a bar?" he repeated.

  It was all clear after that, of course.

  "I just don't get it, Emmet. We've had a great rapport—or so I thought. Just because I am an acquaintance of Rick doesn't mean—"

  "Acquaintance?" Emmet scoffed. "Birds of a feather, more likely. You are dismissed."

  Feeling unbalanced and hurt after the meeting with Emmet, I went to the bridge to talk to the second officer. I asked Barney to show me where I was to be stationed and what I was supposed to be doing during the boat drill I missed. He replied there hadn't been any boat drill and, even if there had been, auctioneers weren't involved.