Savasana at Sea

by Ava Dunne

  “Hi.” She gave me a half smile and looked away.

  I didn’t push it.

  After a minute, she said, “I never thanked you.”

  I waited.

  “For returning my locket. For speaking up for me when they wanted to fire me.”

  “None of it was your fault, and the locket was important to you.”

  “It was.” She sighed. “Maybe one day, I’ll tell you the story behind it.”

  “If and when you feel ready, I’m happy to listen,” I said. “If you choose not to, I understand.”

  She gave me a more genuine smile, then, but before we could talk any further, Amy Russell, our Cruise Director, stepped out on stage. With her was the Charisma’s Hotel Manager, Javier Garcia.

  Amy clapped her hands. “Listen up!” she called, in her perfect British elocution. “Time to pay attention. The rules are a little different this time out.”

  The babble of conversation settled down, and we turned our attention to Amy. She was strict but fair; at the same time, rather intimidating. She smiled and turned to Javier Garcia. In his late thirties, handsome, dark-haired and dark-eyed, he looked like he should be an international soccer star or model for Men’s Vogue, rather than ride herd on all of us. Every time I thought I was used to the amazing physical beauty of the people who worked on this ship, it struck me again. Management held casting calls as much as job interviews.

  “As you know, this week’s route is a little different,” Garcia said. “Alexander Walcott, of Walcott Industries, booked the Charisma to be a tandem cruise with the working salvage vessel Dorio Munde, which is excavating the sunken ship Queen’s Morning Star. She sank off Bermuda’s reefs in 1717. What makes this ship unique is that she was seized from the Spanish by the British, renamed, and then captured and captained by the notorious pirate Dark Annie Hatchett.”

  That drew murmurs of interest. Garcia continued, “Dark Annie could be far more vicious than her contemporaries, including the better-remembered Anne Bonny and Mary Read. Even her most celebrated male counterparts are supposed to have had a healthy respect for her and given her a wide berth whenever possible. After her death, at an old age for a pirate, but still in a fight, the victors tried to wipe her out of history. The Treasure Explorium team wants to restore her legacy.”

  He grinned at us, knowing he had us captivated, and went on, “The rumors around the ship are that she went down with a cache of gold, silver, and jewels. That’s never been proven, but this organization won the permit to debunk or prove the rumors once and for all. This is the first week of our route change for the New York-Bermuda route, but, again, we’re not doing the normal route. We head straight out this afternoon to rendezvous with the Dorio Munde, ETA meeting time on our second day.”

  As he heard questions, he raised his hand to quiet us down. “Yes, technically, it would take us only thirty-six hours to sail from New York to Bermuda, even having to work our way around to the east end of the island to navigate the channel between the reefs. But Mr. Walcott wants a full two days to prep the guests with activities related to Queen’s Morning Star, and to use the pools to get interested guests ready to dive.”

  That brought a groan from the pool staff. I sympathized; it would make their jobs that much more difficult.

  “In order to facilitate that, additional dive training crew are joining us, for the duration of this voyage. They will work under our regular dive instructors, Isla and Chaz.”

  That caused additional muttering.

  “Isla will liaise with the salvage operation’s Dive Master. It shouldn’t bring any extra burden on our staff.”

  That elicited laughter.

  “As you may or may not know, the leader of the salvage operation is Oliver Quark.”

  This brought gasps and an excited murmur. Even I knew who Oliver Quark was — a flamboyant, bad boy Australian who made a name for himself as part treasure hunter, part archaeologist, all over the world. I wondered if his real name was something like Bob Jones.

  “Mr. Quark will be accompanied by a small documentary crew, his assistant, and his publicist,” Garcia continued. “You’ll receive a full list of the Dorio’s staff and crew on your way out. They’re supposed to always wear these green bands.” Garcia held up one of the wristbands that one got at fairs for throwing a couple of bucks in a bucket for a good cause. “But we know how that works.” People laughed. “To be fair, they can’t wear the bands in the water; too likely to catch on something. We can’t expect them to remember to put them back on.”

  “Why not? We’d be expected to remember,” someone grumbled behind me. It wasn’t loud enough for Garcia to hear.

  “Further, the staff and crew of the Dorio Mundo and the salvage operation will have the run of the Charisma. That means they will mix with guests when it suits them, but will also have full use of the crew facilities.”

  That incited more muttering. We were crowded as it was.

  “Many of them will be staying in guest cabins. That also means,” he raised his voice and the muttering quieted, “that the rules for the staff and crew will be loosened.” At the sounds of surprise, he nodded. “We don’t want full anarchy, of course, but both Walcott and Quark made it clear that staff and crew are welcome to participate in lectures and special programs pertinent to the wreck dive, provided it does not interfere with your regular duties. You will also be allowed to participate in the ship-wide Scavenger Hunt set up by Mr. Walcott.”

  At our groans, he reassured us, “All clues in the hunt are hidden on the guest side of the ship, so you won’t have guests clambering around behind the ‘Crew Only’ doors. First prize is a red Corvette, that’s going to be displayed on the Lido Deck.”

  “Don’t get any cute ideas about pulling a prank with it,” Amy warned, and we all laughed.

  “Second prize is an all-inclusive week at the Walcott Resort in Aspen,” Garcia continued, “and third prize is a year’s worth of spa treatments at any of the world-wide locations of Walcott Rejuvenation Spas.”

  Working on a cruise ship, around a spa, we were inured to the lure of spa treatments, even though we couldn’t indulge ourselves. To me, the only seductive package was the week in Aspen. After all, what would I do with a Corvette on the ship? Or in Brooklyn? But then, I wasn’t planning on participating in the scavenger hunt. Was I?

  “Bernie, Mr. Walcott’s assistant, is planting clues on the ship before the guests arrive,” Garcia continued. “The info packet you get on your way out will give you the electronic code for the first clue. But it won’t unlock until everyone is assembled at the Welcome Reception tonight.”

  A hand raised and was acknowledged. “Does this mean Mr. Allegeny isn’t scrambling the Wi-Fi once we leave port?”

  “The signal will cut out again shortly after midnight,” Garcia replied.

  “Don’t let me catch any of you checking your smart phones between now and then when you’re on the guest side of the door.” Amy pointed. “You will be expected to behave with the highest standards of conduct, as always, with guests and with the salvage crew and staff.”

  Another hand rose in the back and Garcia pointed. “Will we be allowed to dive the wreck?” someone asked.

  “Possibly,” Garcia replied. “We’re working out the details. And you have to have the proper certifications to do so. Qualified guests will be allowed to dive in small, guided groups, and several of you at a time should be able to join them. Again, provided it doesn’t interfere with your typical work.”

  The buzz was more positive this time.

  “We will not pull into port in Bermuda at all,” he continued, “but you will all be rotated off for a few hours and taken onto the island over the days we are at the wreck, should you wish. The purpose of this voyage is to focus on the wreck. We will resume our regular schedule for our Bermuda runs after this voyage.”

  There was a happy chatter as we exited the theatre and got back to work. I accepted the packet of information about the Dorio Mundo,
whose personnel would be sort-of colleagues and sort-of not. “I wonder if anyone will want to take yoga with all this excitement,” I said to Hans, as we headed back to our deck.

  “Partners of guests will want to,” said Hans. “You know how it is; you go with your partner because he’s interested, but you don’t really want to participate. You’ll have plenty of students. But don’t forget that you can enjoy some of the programs, if they interest you.”

  “I’m more interested in the people on the ship that went down than the treasure,” I admitted. “I want to know more about Dark Annie Hatchett.”

  Hans laughed. “You would.” I accepted the compliment as he meant it.

  I stopped at the ship’s post office on the way back to my yoga studio. I had a big batch of letters and a couple of packages. I took them with me; I could always put them aside if someone had questions about the programs.

  I smiled when I unlocked the studio and stepped inside, leaving my shoes in the outer room. I loved this space. My predecessor had been a blackmailer and murdered by her victim-turned-partner; when I first took over from her, the studio lacked personality. Now, with the brightly-painted drying racks for the mats, smooth bamboo floors, crystals, shells, and small figures decorating the windowsills, and the 24-hour meditation space next door, it had an aura of both fun and relaxation. I was allowed to personalize this space in a way I hadn’t been allowed to do at the studio in New York — the studio that fired me, and where one of my colleagues poached my fiancé.

  To be fair, if he could be poached, good riddance.

  The cleaners had worked their magic, although I kept it clean between classes, and all they really had to do was mop and empty the garbage. I kept the doors open, so that once guests boarded and started exploring the ship, they could stop in and ask questions.

  “Got a minute?”

  I looked up. A tall woman with masses of wavy dark hair stood in the outer doorway. She wore a dark red silk sleeveless shell and a black skirt. Her dark red high heels matched the shirt, her lips, and her nails. In those shoes, I’d bet she was taller than Roz McIntyre, one of the tallest dancers on the entertainment crew. “Sure. How can I help you?” I put the package and my mail down on the one small table in the room.

  “Mimi Monroe. I’m the new Retail Manager.” She looked at the floors, and then slipped out of her stilettos without being asked. Point in her favor. The nail polish on her toenails matched the other reds.

  “Sophie Batchelder. If you’re asking about staff classes, we’ve started an impromptu one at the crew pool at 5:30 in the morning. But then, you can take class with the guests, can’t you?”

  “I may take class occasionally, but you won’t find me at the crew pool at 5:30 in the morning,” she smiled at me. “I wanted to ask if you’d stop by shop in the fitness center and then come up to Namaste, take a look at what we’re carrying for yoga gear, and then make suggestions.”

  “Oh.” I was disconcerted. The retail manager who’d just left, and whose name I could never remember never cared for my opinion. Maybe that was why I couldn’t remember his name. Names mattered to me. “I’d be happy to.”

  “Thanks. We’ll grab a drink in a day or so and chat? I can put in the order and it’ll be waiting when we dock again.” She looked around. “What a terrific space.”

  I smiled. “I think so.”

  “I’ve heard good things about you, Sophie. I look forward to working together.”

  “Me, too.”

  She was back in her shoes and out before I could say any more. My initial impression was positive.

  I glanced at the letters: family, former cruise passengers. There was a post card from Stella and Bartholomew Orsini from Mexico. I wondered if they were stealing gold from Aztec ruins. Still, I couldn’t help laughing when I read the card.

  A letter from my housemate Fawn in Brooklyn told me they’d done a short-term sublet for my room to a woman working in the chorus of a Broadway show. My belongings had been packed up and were stashed in the basement. On the one hand, that was great; I knew they needed the rent, and I couldn’t afford to pay rent on a place I wasn’t living in. On the other hand, I was worried I wouldn’t have a place to go back to at the end of my six months on the ship. That was a ridiculous and unfounded worry, but real enough.

  “Whatcha up to?” Roz McIntyre herself wandered into the studio, sliding out of her shoes. Roz was one of my two best friends on the ship, a tall, slender, dark-skinned woman who reminded me of a cross between a Daddy Long-Legs and a giraffe.

  “Catching up on mail. The new retail manager actually asked for my opinion on the yoga gear the stores are carrying.”

  “Smart woman. I’m not sorry the last one’s gone. Stores kept running short of everything every voyage.” Roz looked around. “Minerva’s back this voyage. Of course, that means Bryce is back, too, since they’re practically joined at the hip. But you’ll like both of them.”

  “I can’t wait to meet them.” I knew Minerva was Roz’s roommate on board, and Bryce was, well, no one really understood their relationship. They were both on the entertainment staff and had been rotated off for their break. “I’ve heard so many stories about them.”

  “Too bad you can’t see the dock from here.” Roz lingered by the window.

  “Why?”

  “Oliver Quark’s in the process of arriving. I use ‘process’ deliberately.” She rolled her eyes. “Stretch limo. Camera crew ahead of him, walking backwards, to catch every facial expression as he boards our illustrious Charisma. Publicist acting like she works for the Secret Service. Overworked assistant fluttering around him. Right behind him, that Walcott guy showed up, in a town car. At least he didn’t make his entrance by helicopter. Walcott’s got to be sixty if he’s a day, and I’d be surprised if that little wife of his graduated high school.”

  “Maybe she’s his daughter.”

  “Nope.” Roz shook her head. “Wife. Named Tiffany. Our Google Kings looked it up and confirmed it.” A couple of the guys on the entertainment staff were known for their Internet research skills. “The friends and guests are arriving. Looks like a lot of rich men bearing trophy wives and girlfriends. If you ask me, this coming week is going to be filled with dick-size comparisons and high maintenance gold diggers. In every sense of the word. In other words, a nightmare.”

  …

  I didn’t have much to do as the guests arrived. Boarding started at noon, and the ship departed at four. Usually, guests would check into their cabins and then start exploring; if they came down to the deck with the spa and the fitness facilities, they found me. Asked questions about the class, the levels of difficulty, and all the rest.

  But this was different. This cruise focused on a treasure hunt. They could call it a “salvage operation” all they wanted, but most of the guests bought tickets to be part of a treasure hunt.

  I couldn’t concentrate on my mail; to me, it felt like tensions were rising on the ship, and we hadn’t even left port. I couldn’t shake the sense that Roz was right, and this wasn’t going to be an easy week. I leafed through the information package about Oliver Quark and his group; it read, to me, like a lot of marketing spin, and I wondered what they were really like. I was more interested in meeting the marine archaeologist and the curators than I was the infamous Quark. Celebrity didn’t do it for me.

  When the horn blasted to let us know it was time to depart, I locked the studio, dropped my mail off in my cabin, and headed to the crew pool area to watch us pull out of the slip. That never got old, for me. Standing outside, the wind in my hair, the distinct smells of New York City layered with the smell of engine oil, slowly receding as we moved down the Hudson River and into open sea. That would take awhile, and I couldn’t wait and watch until New York and New Jersey were mere specs on the horizon.

  Directly after departure was the first Muster Drill, where we all reported to our stations. The patient crew on the upper decks taught the passengers how to put on life vests and to which
boats they were assigned. Those of us on the lower decks slid on the life vests and walked around, chatting, until it was over.

  Sebastian was in charge of my muster station, and I remembered how he’d hounded me when I first joined the Charisma, making sure getting the vest on and off was second nature. I had reason to be grateful when a launch I rode was sabotaged and I found myself in Bahamian waters on my first voyage.

  It was also the first time we’d had a chance to see each other today. Turnaround day was always busy for him, down in the engine room.

  “How’s it going?” I asked.

  “So far, so good,” he said. “Don’t want to jinx anything.”

  “Does it feel odd to you this afternoon?”

  He flashed me a grin. “Now you sound like Harmonia.” He sobered. “I know what you mean. There’s an edge to everything. Between the demands of Walcott’s rich friends and the demands of Quark’s people, I think we’re all going to be exhausted by week’s end.”

  “When aren’t we exhausted?” I countered.

  “Are you going to take advantage of any of the programs?”

  “Maybe some in the evening,” I said. “Or daytime, if no one shows up for class. Which looks likely.”

  “They’ll turn up, don’t worry.” He put an arm around my shoulders and kissed my hair. “Once they get a look at you, or talk to you, they’ll be there.”

  “I hope you’re right, or there’s no reason for me to be here.”

  “You’re under contract, don’t worry.”

  Once the life-saving drills were done, I decided to take a quick walk around the Sun Deck and the Lido deck. Maybe check with one of the navigators about the weather. This voyage’s Moonlight Yoga was scheduled for tomorrow night, before we reached the wreck. I hoped we wouldn’t be rained out.

  I hoped someone would show up.

  The feeling of tension was higher on the guest side of the door. I expected anticipation; after all, we were on an exciting voyage. Instead, I felt tension.

  I debated asking Amy about it, but didn’t think she’d tell me. It was imperative to her that everything was “brilliant”. If it was only “fine”, that meant major crisis.