Ship for Brains (Cruise Confidential 2) Read online

  Contents

  Title

  Dedication

  >1: Survival Training

  2: Ship Life

  3: High Seas Ulcer

  4: The Chicken of Fate

  5: Misery of the Seas

  6: Birthday Humping

  7: Sundance 101

  >8. The Devil Takes a Wife

  9. The Embarrassment Gene

  10. Bitter Butter

  >11. Who Da Boss

  12. Ghosts and Echoes

  13. Disagreeable Salsa

  14. Ecstasy

  15. My Not-So-Private Dancer

  16. Fire Walk With Me

  >17. Fear and Apathy in Acapulco

  18. Romancing the Stone

  19. Picasso and a Cat

  >A: Department of Homeland Security

  B: Most Expensive Art Sold in Auction

  About the Author

  Bonus!

  Gothic Part 1

  Gothic Part 2

  Books

  Praise

  Series Awards

  Copyright

  Ship for Brains

  Cruise Confidential Book 2

  by

  Brian David Bruns

  A World Waters Publication

  Dedication

  Aurelia, eu voi fii intotdeauna maimuța ta.

  Part 1: The Widow Maker

  If you are going through hell, keep going.

  —Winston Churchill

  Chapter 1: Survival Training

  1

  Cruise ships rarely look guilty. They should. If bulkheads could talk, revealed would be month after month of menial labor, little pay, and less sleep. The dining rooms bear witness to gastronomic atrocities of the highest order, and crew cabins? Booze and sex are taken to criminally insane levels. But luxury liners are never penitent because they are built nose in the air, then vindicated with expensive champagne smashed on their puffed up chest. Like the rest of us, they are oblivious to what happens in their own bowels.

  I was already nervous when I approached Majesty of the Seas to sign on as crew. The sea was a harsh mistress and had already broken me once, but like a good masochist I returned obediently for more. Not a particularly flattering metaphor, but accurate. Horrendous shrieks rose from the ship, and memories of the damned toiling ceaselessly in her depths flooded over me. But that was just the swell rubbing the ship up against the pier.

  Because the pier was level with the opening in Majesty’s hull, crossing the crew’s gangplank was like walking across a horizontal step ladder. Tiptoeing rung to rung loaded with luggage is a little nerve-wracking, especially when directly above Volkswagen-sized bumpers being ground into hamburger. The protective net below was for catching falling wallets, not arrogant Iowans. But cross I did, one with the Idaho potatoes and Samsonite luggage, though as a crew member I was first patted down by security.

  Attractive wooden paneling and brass accoutrements made it clear that this first spot was intended for guests, whereas the dirty plastic flaps blocking a doorway indicated our lot. A young, brown-haired man in a lime green Tommy Bahama polo waited for me, munching on a handful of Tums as if they were peanuts. He rushed forward to greet me, shooting words like bullets from a machine gun. This is not to imply aggression, but that he perhaps thought his words would vanish if not expelled fast enough.

  “You’re Brian, eh? I’m Shawn the art auctioneer. Just the suitcase and a backpack? Bob’s your uncle. My gay boys will join us soon. Don’t worry about the purser.”

  His speech ended so abruptly I wasn’t sure if he was through. But Shawn was already moving, so I followed. He ducked through the flaps accessing the crew corridor and led me into the bowels of the ship. We passed stacks of pallets heavy with plastic-wrapped contents. Open doorways made gaps between the towers of supply, like a long Cheshire cat smile with missing teeth.

  Shawn was a cheery soul, babbling nonstop about all sorts of subjects.

  “Where you from?”

  “I’m from Iowa.”

  “Go Buckeyes!”

  “Close,” I complimented. “That’s Ohio. Iowa is the Hawkeyes.”

  He leaned his head charmingly sideways, like a confused puppy. “Did I mention I was from Canada? Survival’s in the cinema. Busy day today. My gay boys are busy, too, but we won’t work you too hard yet. You know about the I-95, eh?”

  Over the noise and the chaos, his choppy speech was incredibly hard to follow. The crew corridor, known as the I-95, was terra incognita for guests because it housed the mess, the purser, the crew bar, and access to crew cabins below the waterline. Surprisingly, the name was not a reference to an Interstate, but referred to the immigration papers the U.S. requires of foreigner workers, Form I-95.

  “Gene said you know ships already, eh?”

  “I’ve been on three Carnival ships,” I answered slowly. I tried to slow him down without being rude or, for that matter, appearing like the dullard my ex-wife insisted I was.

  “Oh, all ships are the same,” he said, giving me a lopsided smirk. “Only the officers are different. Carnival’s are Italian, so they are easy to handle. They demand respect and tail, you know. Nothing else matters, especially the rules. Just kiss their ass and you are in. But on RCI they’re all Dutch. That means rules first: people last. They love protocol and formality and all that. This is a problem with a lot of Americans because you’re all so casual and hip hoppy.”

  “I believe the technical term is hip hop-like,” I replied helpfully.

  Suddenly a small, handsome man bullied past in obvious agitation. Beneath a striped bandana, his forehead flushed red with anger and he hammered his fists against the bulkhead as if it was a speed bag. Shawn dropped his typically explosive speech pattern and called to the fuming man with incredible, almost mocking sweetness.

  “Why, hello, Amor! Out in port today?”

  The man glanced up, surprised. He outwardly calmed himself, but the quivering of his dimpled chin revealed pressure yet brewing. His face contorted, trying to find the right spot between anger and horror. Shawn suddenly remembered introductions.

  “This is Amor, the bartender I hired for the auctions. He’s from Greece. Amor, this is Brian, the new art auctioneer.”

  No doubt Amor had not really heard anything, lost as he was in rage. He nearly struck his head into the wall, apparently feeling his fists were not appropriately expressive. Shawn prompted with sugary innocence, “Is there a problem?”

  “The problem,” Amor answered venomously, “Is that all Americans are gays.”

  I blinked in surprise. Shawn gave me a sly smile and bowed with grand flourish, indicating the rebuttal was mine.

  “That may, in fact, be an exaggeration,” I replied with amused patience. “I am American and am not gay. However, this may finally explain why my ex-wife so thoroughly avoided me in the bedroom.”

  Amor glared at me a moment, obviously not convinced. Finally he sighed to release some tension and began his tale.

  “I was there, to east. All buildings had flags in front with bright rainbow colors on them. These ones,” he added, indicating the crisp new bandana he wore. It was striped with the entire color spectrum.

  “I thought how cool everyone in America is, they are always so happy. Nobody shows bright colors in my country. We are not all sad, but we are not all happy like you Americans. Colors like this are so happy and full of life.”

  I bit my tongue, perhaps for the first time in my life.

  “I want these rainbow flags to send home to my family, show how different America is. I enter a bar selling these flags and buy this bandana also. In there a man approach me and buy me a beer. I think, what a ni
ce place this Key West, where a stranger buy you beer.”

  I burst out laughing. I couldn’t help it. Shawn grinned widely, and Amor’s face clouded as he tried to understand why.

  “Amor,” I explained. “You were in the gay district. Key West is famous for that. Those rainbow flags mean you are a supporter of gay and lesbian rights.”

  His face darkened and he exploded, “But I am obviously not a gay!”

  “Obviously,” I agreed, trying not to roll my eyes. “Amor, you don’t have to be gay to be a supporter of gay rights. Surely this dastardly deed of buying you a beer isn’t why you are so angry?”

  “No,” he said sullenly. “The man asks me questions the way all Americans do. Where I from, what I do, what my name. I tell him I am Greek, I am sailor, and I am Amor. Then for no reason he try to kiss me!”

  Amor stormed off with an indignant slap at the bulkhead, a kick of some luggage, and a mutter at how humiliating it was that ‘every American in the bar was a gay.’

  “Well, then!” Shawn said brightly. “Welcome aboard!”

  2

  Survival training was an amusing label for the watching of a few videos on watertight doors and garbage separation. That excitement was usually followed by quizzes on how many kilojoules of energy each survivor on a life raft was allocated per day. Such was the way Carnival Cruise Lines handled it. But, to my surprise, Royal Caribbean provided a much more interactive session. While not a dress rehearsal for the next season of Survivor or anything, it was still exciting enough to leave me limping away from the ordeal, humiliated and bleeding.

  First, of course, was film. But this was a far cry from the dry narration of a policy procedural. This shocker was reminiscent of what I saw on graduation day at my high school driving class. ‘Blood Flows Red on the Highway’ became ‘Blood Flows Red on the High Seas.’ I endured simulations of sinking ships and drowning people more intense than even James Cameron’s Titanic. There were also sections where fires burned the unwary, crowds trampled the weak, and pirates attacked everybody. My personal favorite was the watertight door slicing a cow’s leg in two.

  After the gore fest, we were led up to the open deck on the bow of Majesty, which was brutally exposed to the tropical heat of May in Key West. My eyes watered at the brightness reflecting off the lumpy white paint thick on everything, and the sunlight hammering the metal deck burned through my shoes.

  RCI’s Majesty of the Seas was an old-school beast and, like those great liners of the past, the Queen Mary or even Lusitania, this open deck above the boson’s area was filled with unsightly things like cranes and hatches. Yes, Kate and Leo had to navigate all sorts of hazards to get to their first amazing kiss in Titanic, romantic things like extra anchors, propellers, and engine parts.

  A single bright orange life raft rested upon the humming deck. Three steps led up to a platform before the opening in the angular, tent-like peak. There lounged a Dutch officer in a clean and pressed white uniform. By lounging I mean he was merely idle, for he was not slouching by any stretch of the imagination. He stood ramrod straight, out-starching his own uniform. He was of medium height and slight build, with sandy blond hair feathered back over a youthful middle-aged face. He was very handsome and his ice-blue eyes were magnetic.

  “My name is Roosevelt Reddick,” he said as the motley gathering of new crew gathered below him. His English was as crisp as his uniform and correct as his posture. I always found Dutch accents pleasing because they were obviously not American English, yet I could never actually identify what made their speech different.

  “I am Chief Officer,” he continued. “Welcome aboard Majesty of the Seas. This ship was commissioned in 1992, is 74,000 tons and is of Bahamian registry. She carries 2,750 passengers and 830 crew members.”

  “Working at sea and serving our guests is a wonderful privilege, and it is earned by keeping their safety first and foremost on our minds. Here, you are not a cabin steward or a waiter or a singer or a cook: you are crew who safeguard the lives of our guests. That means lowering lifeboats and directing panicked people, it means man overboard training. It may even mean fighting pirates.”

  Aha! Mild-mannered art dealer by day, pirate-smashing crime fighter by night. I always wanted to be a superhero. I’m cool with the tights.

  “Each of you will be certified as ‘personnel nominated to assist passengers in emergency situations’ according to the training objectives of the International Maritime Organization, Resolution A770. This includes basic first aid, survival craft basics, fire fighting skills, and human relationships training.”

  “Now!” he ordered brusquely. “Everyone into the raft!”

  I moved forward like everyone else. Well, not exactly like everyone else. I was the only white guy in the crowd. I was used to that on ships, and certainly used to being the only American present. Barring one Jamaican lady, the crowd was entirely Asian. It was easy to see, as I stood a head or two taller than everyone. More and more bright floral prints and Caribbean T-shirts disappeared into the raft, like the old clowns-fitting-in-the-funny car gag. As soon as Reddick’s X-Ray eyes caught mine, however, he motioned for me to step outside the queue.

  This allowed me the rare opportunity to review a ship’s inflatable life raft. It was a shockingly large thing, considering how it compressed so snugly into keg-sized canisters on deck. The base was two thick black rubber tubes bent into octagonal shape, and the top was a highly visible orange. The entrance was high up to prevent waves from entering, and ropes snaked around everything to assist people doing so.

  The line began to slow, and Reddick urged the crew in with sharp words until everyone except me was inside. “Do not be shy! Make room! This life raft is designed for twenty-four!”

  Grunts and complaints, and waves of heat and moisture, all rose from inside. Reddick glanced down emotionlessly at the squirming mass of flesh below him. His eyes were cold and brilliant in the sun, like an iceberg—captivating, dangerous.

  “Tomorrow this raft could save your life!” Reddick shouted. “Imagine this raft rocking at sea for unending hours under the hot sun.”

  “It is under the hot sun!” someone shouted.

  Reddick let the hoots and jeers subside with exacting patience. He was by far the most comfortable person on the open deck, after all, and at his leisure he chose the best moment to emphasize another point. “This raft will hold twenty-four crew and guests. There are currently only twenty-three of you in there. How does it feel?”

  Angry mutterings and cynical jokes answered him.

  “That is correct, it is difficult to fit all of you in.”

  Reddick motioned for me to step up. I leaned forward and reviewed the conditions inside with anxiety. Bodies filled the space like sardines in a can. Though people crammed at the sides were neatly arranged, the middle was nothing more than a mosh pit.

  “I said this is for crew and guests,” Reddick emphasized. “Now, can anyone tell me what the difference is between each of you and the average American?”

  Alarm bells went off in my mind when Reddick placed his foot on my behind.

  “About one hundred pounds!”

  Reddick launched me through the air, and through the whistling wind I heard someone cry, “Ahh! Big Mac attack!”

  Groans rose as I crushed entwined legs and smashed into bodies. The hapless crew writhed and squirmed to get out of my way. Laughter from those safe at the edges turned to hollers as the shock waves of my inglorious entry radiated outward, with elbows elbowing and knees kneeing. When all the hubbub died down, I wriggled into an awkward position atop four Indonesian and Filipino men and propped my back against the Jamaican woman.

  “Now listen up. As you can see, survival is about everyone. There is no room for anyone to focus solely on himself. You are all crew and obey, but can you imagine this raft filled with complaining guests? They are scared and do not know what to do, they may be separated from loved ones, and they certainly are not comfortable. Imagine this filled wit
h Americans and not Indonesians!”

  “Or da rats with ESP!” cried the Jamaican behind me.

  Ice blue eyes blinked slowly as the odd statement was processed. “Excuse me?”

  The bold Jamaican shook her head with emphasis, loose beads buzzing around her knit cap like a swarm of bumblebees. A few braids smacked me in the face.

  “Rats always leave da sinking ship first,” she proclaimed. “I know for fact two ships in da south Carib sank and da rats left first. For fact! Now how dey know what’s up? Dey gots the ESP, mon, and they get in da raft!”

  The Chief Officer pondered a moment, then finally replied with a painful lack of animation. “I have heard old maritime reports of rats abandoning ship by the dozens prior to the crew even being aware of a problem. Perhaps on less modern ships, such as are likely from Venezuela or Columbia in the south Caribbean, this still happens.

  “Rats would most likely live in the bilge area at the bottom of the ship, which is also likely to be the first place to take on water. Hence rats would move to higher decks. Once on top they would be scared by all the human activity and panic, eventually jumping overboard. A short time later the crew will also learn that the ship is sinking and the uneducated or superstitious may believe the rats can see into the future. Yes, ESP, I believe it is called. I can assure you that there will not be any rats with ESP joining you in the raft.”

  Satisfied, she nodded with a click of beads, several of which continued to rap against my head. Reddick continued in lecture mode.

  “If the ship sinks, guests will look to you for safety. They will assume you are an able seaman, even if you are only a waiter. They will not even see past your nationality. Seventy percent of survivors from maritime accidents are reported as bewildered and using impaired reasoning. Fifteen percent will actually panic and exhibit irrational behavior. Panic leads to pushing, shoving and trampling, which leads to broken bones. Can you imagine being stuck in this raft, rocking on the high seas, with a broken arm or leg? You must be ready to lead.”