by Winona Kent
Rick would rather be chatting with the Captain.
There’s Kev, looking hopefully in Diana’s direction, connecting eyes with Sal, who acknowledges with a subtle nod.
There’s Annie. Minus her writing bag. Though it wouldn’t surprise me if she had a formal one for events like this. With glittery beads. And a fountain pen inlaid with mother of pearl.
I circulate. I’m not fond of these things either, but it’s expected. You know what I’d rather be doing.
I recognize a few people from my TopDeck audience…Catherine and Charlie, still talking worms to whoever will listen.
“But holding a worm is the best thing you can do!” Charlie’s saying, to Linda, who requested a song from me last night.
Linda’s blonde and sultry, with a magical Irish accent that I absolutely adore. She wanted to hear Star of the County Down. I obliged, wishing I had the Chieftains backing me.
“Oh I don’t believe you,” Linda says. “They’re horrible slimy things. So.”
“Ah,” Catherine says, “but that’s only because you haven’t done it properly. They require moisture to breathe, so your hands must be wet. It’s oddly pleasing, and so very calming.”
“Shall I tell that to my husband next time he’s contemplating the garden? He could do with a bit of a calming after teaching hooligan children all day.”
I smile and acknowledge all three as I wander past.
There’s Dallas Allen, who’s written a sci-fi best seller. In real life she’s a lecturer in Maths and Astronomy, and her first name’s Loretta, and she prefers being a reclusive.
There’s Katey. With the travel agents. And Ted. Sally’s guiding Captain Callico their way. They’re important.
It’s all about bookings, even if our old ship’s days are numbered. We still have ten sailings left. And three other ships. As Jemima’s about to remind us.
She’s in her best formal black, and she’s onstage with the mike. “Before we welcome you aboard, ladies and gentlemen, at this point I always do a little cross-selling. You saw her yesterday, berthed beside us in Vancouver, and tomorrow afternoon in Juneau you’ll see her again. The newest addition to our fleet. The Star Amethyst.”
Murmurs of recognition. Sally and Captain Callico pause to acknowledge the Amethyst’s importance. All four of StarSea’s ships are named after glittery rocks. Sapphire, Amethyst, Diamond and Emerald. If they build any more, they’ll need to think of other collections of things. Star Tanzanite just doesn’t have the same ring to it, really.
“The Amethyst cost $500 million to build. She was launched last year at Italy’s Fincantieri Maritimo. She can carry 2,200 passengers, and seventy-five percent of her 1,100 staterooms have private verandahs.”
Sally’s temporarily left Captain Callico’s side, and is escorting Kev over to the exclusive corner where Diana’s holding court. Kev’s beaming like a teenager.
“And I might point out,” Jemima continues, “that onboard there’s also a poolside movie screen…an eighteen-hole championship golf simulator…and fifteen bars, including our famous Chocolate Lounge—which ought to keep Jason, our lovely TopDeck entertainer, quite, quite happy.”
She pauses, as everybody in the Atrium Room turns to look at me.
“And a Cigar Lounge for Jemima,” I shoot back, to appreciative laughter. It’s only the fifth or sixth time we’ve done this one.
“Try and catch him if you can, ladies and gentlemen. TopDeck, after dinner till late tonight. He takes requests and if you bribe him with Green and Black’s, he might let you play with his plectrum.”
More mirth. A genuine grin from me. She’s not used that line before. I can hear Diana, a stage laugh, loud and attention-getting. Katey’s giggling. And coming over to join me. Annie’s watching us both. She has a smile.
“And now—we’ve got a prize to award, to the passenger who’s spent the greatest number of days cruising on StarSea ships…”
I’ve had my dinner in the Officers Mess. Every day they choose something from the Passenger Menu that isn’t very popular, and let us have the leftovers. Tonight it was pasta with shrimp in a tomato cream sauce. Not bad. And infinitely better than the usual fare, which generally involves spaghetti, or roast beef, and something I’ve never been able to identify, but I’m told it’s vegetarian.
I’ve taken my place at TopDeck, tuned my guitars, switched on all the gear.
My audience is a bit listless tonight. They’ve had a long, lazy day. Tomorrow it’s Juneau, and they’re gearing up for shopping and sightseeing. I’ll give them some touristy tunes. Songs they’ve not heard since they were on that seven-countries-in-fourteen-days jaunt around Europe on a bus with big windows and no toilet.
Some of the travel agents are here. Katey’s sitting with the same two as before, and all three are far more interested in watching me than they were last night. Katey’s eyes are shining.
Rick and Carly. Rick’s permanently attached to his drink, guarding it like liquid treasure. He’s met the Captain. Who engaged him in a conversation about music. Sal having briefed him beforehand with info supplied by me. Carly wasn’t impressed. But I know Rick was sincere when he shook the Captain’s hand, and thanked him for taking the time to chat.
Annie. Ever-present Annie. Sitting at a table also occupied by a greying couple who look a bit seasick. She’s making that Coke last for hours. They serve mixed drinks here with the alcohol in a separate little glass. Hers came straight, with nothing on the side.
Diana? No. Better things to do with her time. Obviously.
I like this one. It’s called El Bimbo. Nobody knows its name, but they all know the tune. There. I can see recognition in their smiles.
You’ll enjoy Juneau. Get off the ship. Walk around. Do some shopping, go up Mount Roberts on the tram. Take one of those wildlife cruises around the islands in Stephens Passage. You’ll see Orcas and Humpbacks. Guaranteed.
I sound like the people downstairs in Shorex. I think I’ve missed my calling.
I’m done for the night, and I’ve relocated to Castaways with Sal. It’s too late for Katey—she’s apologized and excused herself, and disappeared into her cabin. She’s got an early tour tomorrow morning.
“Stop it,” Sal’s saying to me, pointedly.
“Stop what?”
Sal doesn’t like it when I check emails or texts or Twitter when I’m sharing her company. Sal doesn’t tweet. She barely knows how to get herself online. She’s quite old-fashioned, really.
“Put it away.”
I’ve just been told to put it away, I tweet. There will be much made of this among my followers, I’m certain.
Sal reaches over and physically removes my phone from my hands. She looks at what I’ve just written.
“You’re incorrigible,” she says.
She snaps it off, and places the phone on the other side of the table, just out of my reach.
We’re sitting in a far, dark corner, watching the First and Second Officers chat up two nicely turned out antipodean ladies I spotted the other night in the Disco. Tonight it’ll be conversation and drinks. Promises to meet again tomorrow night, before Sailaway from Juneau. Things will then get serious. And if the two ladies are still interested, by the end of Tuesday—Skagway—they’ll be bed partners. Until Saturday. When there will be fond farewells at the pier and heartfelt vows to stay in touch…
And then next Sunday night, the game begins all over again. Assuming there’s crumpet worth pursuing. Which isn’t always the case. Our demographic age being what it is.
While we’re watching the First and Second Officers, I can see Diana’s watching us. She’s still wearing her glitter—tonight was our first Formal Night, so all of the passengers are done up in their finery. She’s chosen a seat just along from us, against the wall. And she’s drinking expensive plonk.
Against a wall in the other corner, there’s Annie. Still shadowing me. Still on her own. Still writing, though in this light it must be challenging. She stops every o
nce in a while to look up, and think. Then it’s back to the plotting.
“Apparently,” I tell Sal, “when you’re a travel agent, there’s a routine you follow when you assess a hotel room. Beds. Loos. You can tell a lot about the quality of the establishment by the state of its toilet.”
“I could probably tell a lot about you by the state of your toilet,” Sal replies. “Why is Diana Wyndham staring at me? Does she think I don’t know about her made-up limo story?”
“She stares at everyone. She doesn’t like it when she goes unnoticed.”
“I’ll ignore her, then,” Sal says, pointedly, as her mobile goes off.
Sal has a ringtone reserved for Captain Callico. She answers it.
“I’ll be right there,” she says.
She checks her watch.
“Medevac,” she says to me.
It’s a quarter past two. Actually it’s a quarter past three, but fifteen minutes ago, the clocks went back an hour as we sailed out of Pacific Time and into Alaska Time. I like Sunday nights. I can sleep in late on Monday mornings.
Officially Sal’s shift as Captain’s Secretary is over at seven. Often she works past that, and then, like Captain Callico, she’s on 24-hour call.
“Can I come along?”
“All right,” she says. “As it’s you.”
12
Monday, at Sea
It takes a few minutes for our eyes to adjust to the complete darkness on the Bridge. Sal knows the layout off by heart, what consoles are where, and who’s standing behind us. I’ve been here before. To me, it’s almost mystical. The only things I can see are the tiny red, green and yellow indicator lights on the panels. We stand out of the way, waiting for our eyes to adjust.
“That you, Sally?”
“Yes, sir. And Jason. I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“Be with you in a moment.”
It’s pitch black and silent. I remember the first time I came up here at night. I was expecting friendly chatter and bright lights and the sounds of the ship’s engines. Looking back, I can see how ludicrous that was. The turbines are ten decks down. And bright lights would have blinded the sailors, whose job it is to keep a lookout for traffic in our shipping lane.
We’re travelling through open water at twenty-one knots, guided by radar and satellite. There’s nothing visible beyond the windows but the black sea and the night sky, seamlessly joined. The moon and its liquid reflection. The canopy of stars.
There’s a pull down screen separating the indicator panels from the forward part of the Bridge, where the Bosun’s steering. Gradually, as my eyes adjust, I can see others, most of them motionless. The two Officers of the Watch, a second Bosun whose presence is required between sunset and sunrise, the Captain and Staff Captain. They move silently in the twilight, their conversation minimal, their voices, when communication is needed, hushed.
Captain Callico hands Sally the details. “Here you are. Standard Medevac. Good evening, Mr. Davey.”
“Good evening, sir.”
“The patient’s seventy-two years old, suspected heart attack. Normally we’d wait until daylight but the doctor’s treating it as possible life or death. I’ve alerted Chief Purser and he’ll have his people evacuate the aft pax cabins as per the usual Drill. Pool’s being emptied as we speak. We’ve turned about and we’ll meet the Coast Guard helicopter from Sitka, ETA 0315. I’ll warn pax away from the outside rear decks and we’ll be set. Anything else you need?”
“I’ll call if any of the details are missing,” Sally says. “Will you need me to stay for the entire time?”
“You can finish the report tomorrow morning when I have the doctor’s full record in hand.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Good night, Sally. Mr. Davey.”
“’Night, sir.”
We let ourselves out. And now I’m adjusting my eyes to the sudden brilliance of the fluorescents in the companionway. We walk past all of Sapphire’s diagrammatics. Ballast and oil. Fire and watertight doors. Plumbing. Electrical systems. Alarms. All framed and fastened to the walls for quick reference by the Bridge officers.
In her office, Sal calls up the shell of a blank Incident Log on her PC and types in the details from the doctor’s preliminary report. Passenger name: Lawrence Leyton. Cabin Number: A66.
I glance over Dr. Denny’s report as Sal keys it in. Suspected myocardial infarction, first seen by the ship’s doctor at 21:08, admitted to the ship’s hospital for observation 21:30. Symptoms worsening…patient monitored until 0200, when the decision was made to Medevac him to Juneau.
Sal’s almost done. She adds a note to ask Dr. Singh for the readouts if Dr. Denny forgets to include copies with his final follow-up tomorrow morning.
U.S. Coast Guard, Bartlett Regional Hospital, notified of Emergency, 0215.
“Let’s go outside and watch,” she says, to me.
We’re on Sun Deck, as far aft as we’re allowed, further progress forbidden by a stout yellow rope strung from port to starboard.
It’s too late for most passengers, but the occupants of about a dozen cabins at the stern have been woken from their sleep by the Pursers and relocated for the duration. This, in case the helicopter should crash into the ship. It’s a standard procedure. The handful who’ve made their way up here don’t look happy.
On Promenade, three decks below us, attendants are draining the pool and hot tub. Another standard procedure. Again, in case of dire events.
It’s chilly up here. Windy. And the water’s rough. We’re in the open North Pacific, a long way from land.
“May I have your attention, please. This is the Captain.”
Sal and I wait with the satisfaction of those who have rare inside knowledge of things about to happen.
“We have a medical emergency on board the ship. The patient will shortly be evacuated by helicopter. For your own safety, we ask that passengers please stay off the open aft areas of all decks. Please do not take any flash photographs from any of the decks, or from your stateroom windows. Thank you for your co-operation.”
Two deck attendants are folding away the wooden lounge chairs and stringing a safety net over the nearly-empty pool. I glance over my shoulder. Bright red and white lights have been switched on near the array of antennas on Observation Deck. Navigation beacons for the Coast Guard helicopter.
Captain Callico’s announcement is repeated. We’re joined by more passengers. This is far more entertaining for them than the slots in the Casino and DJ Pedro’s Disco Beat. They’ve brought their drinks with them.
There’s Diana. Champagne in hand.
If I peer into the darkness, I can see a tiny, bright star hovering along what might be the horizon. And if I look down at the water, I can see—and hear—that we’ve come to a full stop.
The bright star becomes the brilliant spotlight of a US Coast Guard Sikorsky Jayhawk. It’s veered off to starboard and is hovering, its huge blades beating the air. The pilot won’t land—it’s far too tricky in this pitching sea. And the deck’s too small anyway.
We’re suddenly plunged into complete darkness as all of the ship’s external lights switch off.
Conversation on the Sun Deck ceases. The only sound’s the chop of the blades, the wind, and the hiss of the sea below. It’s eerie.
Above and behind us, one red and two white lights signal the helicopter from one of our vertical antennas. The pilot swings around to the stern, hovering just above the aft end of Lido Deck, trying to ride the windgusts.
A technician’s lowered to the deck, harnessed onto a rope.
“This is exciting, isn’t it.”
One of the passengers, talking to no one in particular. A little man, full of self-importance.
Diana answers. “Not for the poor soul at the centre of it all, I shouldn’t think, darling.”
“Good God. It’s Diana Wyndham. In the flesh. You wrinkled old tart. What are you doing on board this decrepit tub?”
“I’m off to
see the Land of the Midnight Sun, Desmond. Tell me—has that nasty infection cleared up yet? Or are you still oozing vile quantities of virulent pus?”
Sal’s looking at me. I’m trying very, very hard not to laugh.
“I’m writing a story about the ship, Diana. She’s being retired. Who knows what tales she has to tell.”
“Bit of a come down for you, Desmond? Chasing sea tales? Not quite in keeping with your usual spew.”
“Interesting reading for the punters. Plus the fact that you’re aboard. We’ll have to have a little chat later.”
“Much later,” Diana replies. As she removes herself. Quickly.
“Des King,” he says, to Sal and me. “London Daily Chronicle.”
The UK’s most notorious tabloid. I’ll be watching what I say. No wonder Diana left.
A little green light’s winking on and off inside the dark cabin of the Jayhawk. I can see the patient on his stretcher, waiting on aft Lido. It’s the grey-haired gent from the jacuzzi, yesterday. I’m sure of it. I’m filled with a sense of sadness. I hope he’ll be all right.
The stretcher’s winched up and manoevered through the open door. The rope’s lowered again, and Dr. Singh’s hoisted up along with the technician, the two men facing one another in the harness. The Jayhawk’s door slides shut. The green light winks, and the helicopter banks away to port, picking up speed. As it veers off, several passengers applaud. It seems slightly bizarre. But the applause travels, like a wave, all around Sun Deck, until the helicopter’s out of sight.
“Well,” Sal says. “I’m off to bed. Good night.”
“Night Sal.”
I dig into my jacket pocket for my iPhone. This is worth a tweet or two.
It’s not there.
I remember. Castaways…I left it on the table.
It’s not on the table. No one’s around. Castaways is empty, lights off. Bartender and waiters long gone.
Leo, our waiter, will have seen it, recognized it as mine, handed it in. Purser’s Desk.
Kendall’s the Night Manager. He hates it. He’s seasick the entire time he’s on shift. I once asked him why he stayed on.