Ship for Brains (Cruise Confidential 2) Page 2

  “Is dis da poop deck?” the Jamaican interrupted. “You know, where people would go off da boat?”

  The Chief’s handsome face became stone, but his eyes flashed dangerously.

  “No,” he replied tersely. “The poop is the deck above the rearmost cabin. The name comes from the Latin word for ‘stern’, not from any bodily functions.”

  With a glare at the woman, which included me by proximity, Reddick continued, “There is no reason to panic, anyway. Passengers practice boat drill every cruise, and the International Maritime Organization’s guidelines require that all passengers can be lowered into the ocean within thirty minutes. Barring a deliberate bombing, the sinking of a ship of this size will take many hours.”

  “A bombing?” someone asked, concerned.

  “Yes,” the Chief explained. “After the terrorist attacks of September 11th in the United States—”

  “What about pirates?” the Jamaican blurted, interrupting again.

  Reddick’s lips compressed as he tightly asked, “Pirates?”

  “Dey in the Caribbean, mon!”

  “Only at Disney World,” the Chief replied sharply. “Or around Somalia and the South China Seas. No pirate, no matter how desperate, would attack a ship of this size, with such a preponderance of trained crew. Pirates seek large, slow vessels with minimal crew and maximum payload, such as oil tankers or cargo haulers. In those cases they have a mere two dozen men to overcome. On Majesty of the Seas, pirates would need to secure nearly one thousand crew. Still, the wealth on this ship is immense and kidnapping two thousand Americans is surely worth a high degree of risk.”

  “Ya der be risk, mon!” the Jamaican boomed. “And the Bermuda Triangle? Tell me—”

  “Everybody out of the raft!” Reddick ordered curtly. “We are going to the pool!”

  With amused snickers, we all struggled awkwardly out of the raft. The floor beneath bowed under our knees, but enthusiasm to escape the stifling heat was more than enough to propel us out. A long line of sweaty men trudged after Reddick through the corridors, up ugly metal crew stairs, and finally to the pool deck, which was cordoned off from guest use. He ordered everyone to grab a life jacket and encircle the pool, upon which another life raft lazed.

  “Now,” Reddick said. “There are two things we have left to cover. The first is simple, but important: jumping from the deck of a sinking ship.”

  The Chief Officer motioned me forward, and I asked cautiously, “You’re not going to kick me into the pool, are you?”

  His answering grin never reached his eyes.

  “This time we will start with the big man,” he called to everyone. “Jumping into the sea may seem simple, but if you do it wrong you can seriously hurt yourself. No, you won’t break a leg jumping ten meters into the ocean, but you may damage something more important, so make sure you cross your legs!”

  Reddick motioned for me to illustrate, but when he reached towards me I panicked. Legs crossed, I hopped awkwardly on the pool’s edge and accidentally fell over with an ignominious splash. When I spluttered to the surface, I was greeted with an embarrassing wave of laughter.

  “The last thing to cover today again involves the life rafts,” Reddick called out. “If Majesty of the Seas sinks, the hydrostatic release will loose all the life rafts in the white canisters on deck. Their painter lines are attached to the ship and designed to snap under strain, which self-inflates the rafts so they float to the surface. But sometimes they do so upside-down.

  “It is very easy to flip a raft right-side up when empty. With people inside, it is impossible to flip, regardless of how high the waves are. Grabbing the rope encircling the base of the raft, you flip it using leverage, not strength.”

  Following Reddick’s orders, I swam over to the raft and lumbered up onto the wet rubber bottom with surprising difficulty and finally lay there, like an elephant seal on a bobbing rock. Salt water dribbled into my eyes and I squinted in the sunlight reflecting off the waves generated by my unwieldy motions. The raft rocked like mad and I was nearly pitched off the side.

  “The raft is unstable in this position, so lay your body flat. Grab the rope. OK, now just stand up.”

  “Huh?”

  “Just stand up,” Reddick repeated. “You will see.”

  Still holding the rope, I adjusted my weight as if simply getting up from the floor after watching TV, like when I was a kid. The raft flipped so fast that I was flung backwards into the shallow end. Somehow my hand caught in the rope and instead of being tossed back to safely land in the water, I plunged beneath and cracked my knee against the bottom. Wincing terribly from the pain, I struggled to the surface with a gasp.

  Embarrassed and bruised, I extricated my hand tenderly from the line. My fingers throbbed from the throttling and rope marks blazed in red and white across my wrist. Pain lanced up my leg as I limped to the edge of the pool. I was sure I had sprained it.

  “Like that!” Reddick exclaimed, “Only do it better. Smart people let go of the rope so they don’t hurt themselves!”

  3

  An hour or so later, Majesty of the Seas pulled away from the pier and churned towards the open sea. Somewhere across its thin, roiling surface was my Bianca. She had been my original reason for going to sea with Carnival. She inspired my aspirations as an art auctioneer. She was my motive for everything.

  Bianca was a cruise ship waitress from Romania who worked at sea eight months a year. I was a smitten American who followed her like a puppy the entire year. We came from dramatically different worlds, but had resolved to come together. That wasn’t as easy as either of us wanted. Against all precedents, I had fought a whole year in Carnival Cruise Line’s restaurants to be with her. I slogged seven days a week at menial labor for less than minimum wage and endured international politicking that involved denial of medical care and even food. But after no less than fifty straight fifteen-hour days, and still no closer to my Bianca, I finally admitted defeat.

  Yet when one door closes another always opens. I was now training to become an art auctioneer for Sundance at Sea. I had endured much for this job already, including the single most stressful week of my life during auctioneer screening. All my strengths and weaknesses had been brilliantly exposed at Sundance’s main gallery in Pittsburgh, but I had shown enough potential to be sent here to learn from the Rookie of the Year. The stakes were high, but self-awareness was a powerful force for soothing nerves.

  The sobriquet of auctioneer was yet a long way off. I would be an unpaid trainee for a full month while on Majesty. During that period Shawn had first call whether or not to promote me into the next step, that of associate.

  As an associate, I would be a glorified auctioneer’s assistant. The lion’s share of learning would happen there, and would last for untold months or possibly even years. But what a living it would be! Associates’ wages were entirely sales-based and most did quite well. It was still second class citizenry, to be sure, but regular crew life was about ninth class.

  To become a full auctioneer on my own ship required the blessings of my managing auctioneer first, followed by the fleet manager, then the endorsement of the supreme fleet manager, and then ultimately the owner of Sundance. I needed to reach these goals while alone, but once the position was secured, I would finally be able to bring my Bianca with me. I had already suffered thirteen months at sea to be with her, what was another year? I would wait a lifetime!

  Chapter 2: Ship Life

  1

  My walk-in closet at home was literally larger than my crew cabin. True, it never stank or had condom wrappers crammed into the nooks, but such things were to be expected on ships. I inherited my cabin on Majesty from Shawn, who arrived late and more than a little disheveled. He rifled through his pockets and dumped all manner of revealing evidence of ship-style revelry on the floor: bits of napkin with phone numbers hastily scrawled upon them, breath mints, a condom, and several cherry-flavored Tums. Finally he found his key and opened the door with
a look not unlike a dog caught chewing slippers.

  “The maid won’t come on home port,” he apologized. “They move all the guest luggage, you know.”

  “As long as there aren’t any naked men inside, it will be just fine.”

  “My reference to ‘my gay boys’ is just an expression, eh.”

  “I had a recurring problem with naked men popping up in my room while with Carnival,” I hastily explained. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

  “Please don’t,” he agreed. “But as an auctioneer you have your own cabin.”

  My home for the next month packed two bunks, two lockers, and a small desk in about ten by six feet. A slender aisle separated the bottom bunk from the desk, providing all sorts of painful opportunities to hit my sprained knee. The top bunk was occupied by about four dozen art prints in matting stacked liked books. My bunk was lost beneath heaps of clothing roughly categorized by cleanliness, purpose, and designer label. Cheap, dog-eared posters of generic beach scenes were taped aggressively to the walls and nearly hid the entrance to the tiny bathroom, which crammed a shower, sink, and toilet all in the space of a phone booth. Yes, the toilet was actually in the shower.

  It was a typical cabin in most regards, but it did have one exciting feature: a port hole! The round window let in a stream of sunlight and a horrendously dusty artificial plant absorbed it all indifferently.

  “A window!” I squawked. “Crew cabins have windows? I don’t believe it!”

  “Staff cabins, eh. Not crew,” Shawn corrected. “Crew are packed into little closets and stuff. You know, the ships are contractually obligated to provide a guest cabin for auctioneers. They found a loophole to deny me one, but now that we have an associate coming I get it. So thanks for that, eh.”

  “We have an associate?”

  “We have you,” he answered, shrugging. “I dunno. I’m sure you’ll be fine as an unpaid trainee for a month and stay on as associate. I don’t really know what they have in mind for you, because this is new for all of us. But I could use the help, man. I’m burned out. Really, I’m done. I could hardly get it on last night, and I still have three more Steiners to bang.”

  I chuckled. Steiners were the crew who worked in the ship’s spa. Invariably young women, they had a reputation as being very accommodating. Not in the Biblical sense.

  “Just one more month and I get four months off. Damn, I need it.”

  “I hear you have done very well. Sounds like your hard work is paying off.”

  “You got that right, brother. I’m clearing shit loads of money. I’m moving my ass as far away from Calgary as I can get. Buy me a house in the Bahamas.”

  I nodded, not really listening. I was thrilled to finally have my own cabin. Living on a ship was a trying experience in a lot of ways, but having a private space to call your own could possibly be the difference between success and insanity.

  In the past I had been forced to shack up with a Thai couple with a penchant for Chinese martial arts movies, an incomprehensible Costa Rican with the size and tendencies of a gorilla, and an insomniac Reborn-Christian from India who quoted scripture until dawn. Those had been the only cabin mates who refrained from having sex parties while I was trying to sleep, anyway. The art in the other bunk wasn’t going to bring a different foreign woman in here every night. That was not nearly as intriguing as I would have thought when I was a teen. Yes, this was the life. This was, without a doubt, the mother of all cabins.

  “So, here’s the deal about food in here,” Shawn explained. “We are contractually allowed room service in our guest cabins but, again, they hosed me on that. I tip so much, though, that they sneak it in for me. No one is allowed food in their cabins these days. Big drama. Roaches. And for God’s sake, don’t put any food down the toilet!”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “The Asians do it all the time. They take food from the mess and bring it to their cabins. Then to hide the leftovers they put all sorts of bones and fish heads in the toilet. It clogs, of course, and screws up the whole system. You know how ship toilets are super sensitive. That’s why the crew mess literally smells like shit all the time. It’s not the food.”

  “You have got to be joking.”

  “No, really. You’ll see. You know ships, you know how different some of these cultures are. Just be real careful, OK? Hot Man will make cabin inspections. What kind of clothing do you have with you?”

  “Not much,” I admitted, nearly caught off guard by his odd segue. “I didn’t want to bring the wrong things. I have my suit, but that’s about it.”

  “Bob’s your uncle,” he said, for some reason I could not fathom. “I am very casual. During the days I wear pants and polos. They have a Banana Republic in Key West, so you can get some stuff there. I think Gene mentioned that trainees don’t get any money for their first month, so if you need some cash, just ask.”

  “No, I’m all right. Thanks.”

  “Bob’s your uncle,” he said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Bob’s your uncle,” he repeated, as if that explained everything.

  “I presume that is some sort of top secret Canadian military code?” I asked, adding cryptically, “The moose is at the door.”

  “Anyway,” Shawn continued. “You can watch my gay boys. You don’t have to do boat drill. One of the perks. Anyway, first night’s auction is tough because everyone is new and confused and lost and all that. But we have my gay boys.”

  He looked at me expectantly. I just stared blankly at him, trying to sort through everything he had just said. He spoke a mile a minute and hopped back and forth from subject to subject without any rhyme or reason. I sensed that though this be madness, there was method in it. Of all the nationalities I had worked with at sea, numbering about sixty, I was having the biggest communication problems with a Canadian!

  “So, uh, Bob’s your uncle?” I offered slowly.

  “Bob’s your uncle!” he agreed firmly. “Anyway, speaking of gay boys, how was your meeting with Roosevelt? He did your survival training, eh?”

  “Uh, yeah. Survival training. Uncle Bob. Gay boys. Shawn… what the hell are you talking about?”

  He cocked his head again for his Basset-Hound look. “You’ll meet them. The guys I hired to set up and assist the auctions, Denny and Jesse. They’re a dancing couple. By that I mean they are dancers and a couple. They are awesome man, absolutely sweet. I pay them a shit load of money but they are worth every penny. I think they used to own a flower shop or something, because they make everything so pretty.”

  “Yes, I believe the rules require all gay men to work as florists at some point,” I said sarcastically. “Barring those who don’t heed the call of being hair dressers, needless to say. So what does that have to do with Reddick? Is he gay or something?”

  “No, of course not. He’s Dutch. Kinda like your uncle.”

  “You’re losing me, man.”

  “The Dutch are like the world’s leading nation for accepting gays,” he explained. He looked me up and down for a moment and added, “I figured you would know that.”

  I snorted in response.

  “They have a monument to gayness in Amsterdam and stuff,” he continued. “You Americans don’t get out much, do you?”

  “Apparently less than Greeks,” I replied. “Anyway, yes, I just met Reddick Roosevelt. He seems nice enough for a Chief Officer, but a bit stiff.”

  “Seems nice enough, sure. It’s Roosevelt Reddick, by the way.”

  “Isn’t that what I said?”

  “No, Roosevelt is a first name in the Netherlands.”

  I was used to the switching of family names and given names in Europe. Bianca and I had all sorts of difficulty because she never knew what her first and last names were. In Romania the family comes first, so they say Pop Bianca, and not Bianca Pop as we Americans would. While summering in Romania I had a similarly difficult time referring to myself as Bruns Brian. They were completely flabbergasted at my
middle name.

  “He gets mad at Americans who think it’s his family name. I know you had a president with that name, but trust me, the Dutch were around first and that matters a lot to them. When America was brand new it was the Dutch who gave them their first loan. I hear that all the time, so I guess they feel you still owe them. Anyway, Roosevelt seems nice until protocol is broken. You’ll see it. Break the rules and you’ll face hell.”

  “You had problems?”

  “Me? No way, eh. Everyone loves Canadians.”

  “Well, I’m a good boy, I follow rules. I was a boy scout and everything. Troop 63, don’t you know. Bob is most definitely my uncle.”

  “And Fannie’s your aunt!”

  Unfortunately, Shawn’s warning about the importance of protocol was more accurate than I would ever imagine. Within a month I would be embroiled in such a far-reaching problem that the captain himself would have to step in—and top-tier Royal Caribbean—and the owner of Sundance Auctions at Sea.

  2

  My entire first day on Majesty of the Seas was a blur, but it was better than being a waiter. I once had to return to Carnival Conquest from Bianca’s house in Transylvania. That involved a gypsy-filled train to Bucharest, a turbulence-shaken flight to Frankfurt, an ear-bleeding Transatlantic flight beside screaming children to Chicago, then an ear-busting party flight with Mardi Gras-minded revelers to New Orleans, and then finally a bus to Gulfport, Mississippi. One hour after that I began a twelve-hour shift with nary a five-minute break. When I finally returned to my cabin for a blissful six hours of sleep—after a solid fifty hours on the go, my insomniac Reborn-Christian cabin mate quoted gospel until dawn. The punchline wasn’t that I was tired so much as that I am an atheist. Ship life.