2
I liked to think of my seven seas rendezvous with Bianca in Hollywood fashion. I was the hapless guy who realized too late that he’d made a mistake, who then rushed off to catch his lover before she left him forever. I would magically appear right where I needed to be to prevent her from taking the vows, or boarding the plane, or whatever other Hollywood invention of the moment. But sometimes Hollywood is full of crap.
I didn’t have the deep pockets of Richard Gere in Pretty Woman, who showed up in a limousine with flowers to win Julia Roberts forever. But all I had to do was hop from one Bahamian island to another. I even had time on my side: the flight wasn’t until the morrow. How hard could that possible be?
Turns out, pretty hard.
The first hurdle in getting on the flight from Freeport, Grand Bahama Isle to Nassau, New Providence Island, was communication. Mariner’s internet was down, and nobody aboard had a cell phone that worked in the Bahamas. Finally I borrowed a cell phone from a local welder, but discovered the airline would not accept credit cards over the phone.
Thus the second hurdle: cash. Ships frequently ran on a cash-only basis, but I had just paid out everything I had to my employees before they left for vacation. The purser was gone. My friends were gone. In fact, almost everybody was gone! But not my room steward. Alas, Ricardo drove a hard bargain: he demanded a credit card as hostage until I paid him back. Further, he needed 100% interest. The irony was that he had only twenty dollars!
I ran outside of the shipyard to where a limousine waited. Oddly enough, aged and sun-blasted limos were commonly used as taxis in the Caribbean. The driver informed me that the nearest ATM was in the airport, but twenty dollars wouldn’t get me there—taxi drivers extorted the crew mercilessly. He drove me as far as my money lasted, then abandoned me on a lonely, sandy road lined with wild canes and bamboo. The airport was one mile farther down the road, he said. It was almost 100 degrees outside, with a merciless sun, and humid as hell. My sunburned flesh ached even beneath two layers of protection. When I finally arrived at the airport, sore and soaked with sweat, there waited the taxi driver at the end of a long queue of empty limos—he had driven straight to the airport anyway!
The ATM only took Bahamian bank cards. Hurdle number three.
I tried dealing with several taxi drivers, even at the risk of violence. Talking to drivers deeper in the queue was serious business. I had seen fights, and even an actual riot, over cabbies not getting fares properly. But I needed someone to take me gratis to a bank in town, where I could then pay him. But it was Saturday, and banks were closed. Even if the ATMs took US plastic, they were all inside the buildings! Striking out with the taxis, my walk back to Mariner through the torrid heat was awful. Worse, during my absence, the ship’s water had been turned off.
Proverbial hat in hand, I returned to room steward Ricardo. I begged him to gather friends to gather money so that on the morrow I could get successful transportation to the airport. After promising him the sun and the moon—and after two hours of collecting among the crew—I received the necessary money. Amazing, how such a paltry sum of thirty dollars caused such distress!
The next day I got to the airport and paid for my ticket with a credit card. When I landed in Nassau, I was thrilled to see an ATM that took non-Bahamian bank cards. Alas, it only dispensed a maximum of $100—all Bahamian. That didn’t seem like much of a problem at the time.
Enter hurdle number four.
I had already booked a room at the British Colonial Hilton. This was good, because everything in the entire city of Nassau was shut down for Sunday night. I didn’t want to eat at the Hilton, because they were in the midst of Conch Week, wherein every single entree featured conch. I was sick of conch. But the only restaurants open, namely the Greycliff and Chaz, both wanted $70 a plate: cash only. By the time I returned to the hotel, even their restaurant had closed. After hours of wandering, I found a small local café that sold me red beans and rice.
Yet, in the long view of things, that ordeal was the least I had endured in my quest to be with Bianca!
3
I had gotten used to the long gaps in my life without Bianca. I hated them. Use did not make them any more tolerable, nor pass any faster. That said, when immersed in the work of preparing for our life together, I was preoccupied.
Not so, in Nassau.
Having arrived at the huge pier extra early, steaming coffee in hand, I watched Carnival Valor ease through a pink haze that lingered long after dawn. Watching something so huge move so fast so silently was always a bit eerie. Then again, only a foghorn could cut through the noisy bustle of the port and cries of sea gulls.
After three months, I was finally going to see my Bianca! But not until the mooring lines were secured. I watched the Bahamians rush about the pier, securing the heavy ropes expertly transferred from the seamen on deck. They moved with an alacrity surprising for the Caribbean. Maybe my luck was finally shifting away from the constant worst-case scenarios I had endured all during dry dock.
Maybe not. One last hurdle awaited: a Disney cruise ship was coasting past the reefs and vacation houses towards the pier. If the Bahamians didn’t finish with Valor fast enough, the Disney ship would dock and shut down the pier while it, too, properly secured its mooring lines. That would mean yet another delay.
Worst-case scenario prevailed: the Disney ship docked. Nearly an hour passed before I saw bodies coming down the gangway from Valor. The first several hundred were guests, of course. Before I finally saw Bianca saunter down the gangway, the sun was blasting from directly overhead.
Bianca wore a snug dress of some bizarre purple and white stretchy material. It hugged her curves tightly, which is what I wanted to do. Those curves were a bit spare compared to three months before. She had dropped a lot of weight—weight she didn’t really have to lose. But her cheeks were still round and rosy, and her smile pronounced. Unfortunately, so were the dark patches under her eyes.
“You look fantastic,” I said as she gave me a big hug.
“They give you free cocaine on that magic ship, too?” Bianca said, smirking. “You really are a rock star.”
“You do look good,” I reaffirmed above her objections. Glancing her over again, I added delicately, “You do look tired, though. If you want, we can take a nap before lunch. I have a room for us at the British Colonial Hilton, as requested.”
With grand flourish, I bowed deeply and held out my hand for her. Instead of taking my hand, Bianca frowned.
“As requested?”
“In a manner of speaking,” I clarified, rising up. “Remember in Egypt you commented that you always wanted to stay at the best hotel in a foreign country, where royalty and celebrities go? I got us a room at the British Colonial Hilton. Filmed two James Bond movies there, don’t you know, and it has the only private beach in Nassau.”
Bianca smiled briefly, but it never reached her eyes.
“How about lunch?” she piped instead. “We could go to Hard Rock Cafe.”
“The Hard Rock Cafe?” I asked, blinking in surprise. Bianca was not one for a quickie before lunch in a new place, but I had thought she would at least want to see the hotel and maybe relax with a smoke or something.
“But you and the Romanian mafia go to Hard Rock Cafe every time you’re in this port,” I protested.
“It’s where I’m most comfortable,” she said simply.
Though unsure of what she meant by that, I acceded to her wishes. A few minutes later we screamed our orders to the waitress, barely able to be heard over the thundering music. I reached across the table to take her hand. She kept her hands folded in her lap.
With that rebuff, the odd vibe I had been getting from Bianca flared into the first full warning bell. Lunch was all right, but Bianca seemed... nervous. The second warning bell tolled upon entering our room at the British Colonial. I pulled Bianca close for a kiss. She did not resist, but was obviously hesitant.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, pulli
ng back. “You’ve seemed edgy all morning.”
“Look, I don’t know how to say this, so I’m just gonna say it.”
We sat on the bed and faced each other.
“The timing isn’t right for me to join you yet.”
I stared at her, stunned. I didn’t say anything. Bianca knew me well enough to know that meant something was seriously wrong.
“It’s just the timing!” she repeated. “I still want to join you.”
I continued to stare at her, waiting for an explanation. She hurried to offer one up.
“There’s nobody else or any such thing. Ask anyone. Besides, you know how cold I am on ships. The timing isn’t right.”
“The time is now,” I said. “Look at your hands!”
I grabbed her wrists and forced her to show me her hands. Every finger was split open or uneven with cracked scabs.
“How long do you think you can hide this?” I demanded. “Are you really that scared to join me? Being a waitress this long is killing you!”
“I’ll be going on vacation in just two weeks,” she defended. “I’ll be OK.”
I eyed her warily, and asked, “Two weeks? You never told me that! How is that possible? You’re still in mid-contract. We had it all planned, Bianca. After dry dock you join me, we finish the contract together, then vacation in Iowa so you can finally meet my parents.”
“They need me to open the next ship,” she explained, pulling her hands away. She acted defiant, yet she wouldn’t look me in the eye. Instead, she dropped her gaze to the comforter. “I get a short break—just a month—then open the Liberty in Montfalcone.”
I was shocked at what I was hearing, but deep inside, anger brewed.
“You’re ditching me for another chance to see Italy on Carnival’s dime!” I accused.
“It’s not like that,” Bianca said quietly. “It’s about timing.”
“Timing!” I snapped. “How much more goddamn time do you need? Another two and a half years?”
“What’s your worry?” Bianca shot back. “You’re happy drinking and dining and dancing with your two babes every night.”
“Are you kidding?” I asked, raging. “Don’t play that game with me! You know they’re just friends, and you know damn good and well how long I’ve been focused on us!”
Silence descended. Anger was in the air, a desire for hurtful words. I bit my tongue.
Finally Bianca spoke.
“It is about timing,” she said in a quiet, subdued voice. “I’m just not in the right mindset.”
“You’re not ready to share your ‘big secret’ with me,” I clarified sullenly. “Even after all this time. Incredible.”
“It’s just a little more time,” Bianca said. She began to sniffle and her eyes darted about the room. “I almost lost you once on Conquest because I couldn’t adapt. I’m scared I’m going to lose you again and it will be all my fault. I need for you to be you. I need you to be patient and understanding, more than I can ever be. Just a bit longer. After nearly three years, what’s another few months?”
“So what do I get?” I quipped. “Some extra foot rubs, or something?”
Bianca’s eyes grew wide at my harsh statement.
“Why you so mean?”
“Why are you so selfish?” I retorted. “It seems that this is all about what you want, on your terms. After communism and Catalin, you never had control over your life, and now that you have it, you refuse to lose it. Since you can’t control how I’ll react to whatever your ‘big secret’ is, you won’t tell it. Don’t control our relationship. Participate in it!”
“I don’t expect you to understand,” she whispered.
“I don’t understand,” I agreed. “Do you understand what we’re talking about here? I return to a life of fine wine and gourmet dinners, nice clothes and luxurious ports, relaxation and lots of money. You go back up to your elbows in bleach, hands split open and sleep deprived—but you get a peep at Italy for free! And better yet, you get to keep hiding. Oh, by the way honey, if you’re still able to type with bleeding fingers, maybe you can keep telling me that you love me. I’m sure that’s enough to make me wait another three years.”
Looking her in the eye I said, “I won’t. Why should I?”
Bianca looked at me with wet eyes, but she refused to break into tears. We sat and looked at each other, minds spinning. I was too stunned to think that this was the end, though I felt in my gut it could be. I refused to give up on us quite yet. But for the first time, I feared she had already done so.
“I don’t understand,” I said gently, if earnestly, “but I accept. Acceptance is what love is all about. Think about that when I’m gone.”
4
I was in a daze during my return to Mariner. I simply couldn’t believe that after so very long struggling to be together, Bianca had said ‘no’. Was what I had thought fantastic actually just fantasy? One thing was for certain: I would take the plunge for Bianca at any time, and had done so repeatedly. She had not reciprocated. But then, how could I blame her for fearing she would sink under the burden of her own baggage? She had failed us once already, she said. Doubt inevitably pulls one under.
How had I not allayed her fears after all this time? What was I not doing?
But some fights one had to fight alone. What I really needed to figure out was whether Bianca had lost her internal struggle or hadn’t bothered to engage in battle at all. I ruminated on that while the plane was delayed. It was more than a little annoying when a twenty-minute flight was delayed by an hour. We sat in the broiling heat in our little metal box on the tarmac. Alas, such things were to be expected in the Caribbean.
One irate American was apparently new to the Caribbean, because he complained loudly the entire time under the false impression that this would improve performance. He was exceptionally rude to the flight attendant, to the point of screaming obscenities, all while his two children stared, wide-eyed and trembling. Finally the plane was cleared for takeoff, just when the asshole decided he had waited long enough. He yanked his children out of their seats by the arms and drug them through the plane to the exit. Once before the sealed door, he shrieked like a madman at the attendants, the captain, anybody, to let him out. When a beleaguered flight attendant tried to comfort his crying children, she suffered another round of verbal abuse. He was finally let off the plane, but then demanded his luggage. They had to unload half the passengers’ baggage to retrieve it.
In all, we were delayed an hour and a half. Just as the flight roared into the air, I thought my annoying distractions were at an end, and I could stew peacefully. It was not to be. A little Bahamian boy climbed atop the back of the seat before me and stared at me with big eyes.
“Daddy?” he asked, looking at me quizzically.
I glanced up at the boy and snapped, “Not bloody likely, kid.”
Upon landing, I went to an internet café before returning to the ship. After two and a half weeks without internet, I was suffering from withdrawals. I needed to reread some of Bianca loving emails, and maybe glean from them something useful. Instead I received an email from Sundance:
“ZERO SALES UNACCEPTABLE. HANDOVER TO NEW AUCTIONEER IN TWO DAYS - Gene.”
5
I had lost my ship of dreams because I hadn’t closed any sales—while Mariner was high and dry and gutted like a fish! My mind, already dizzy because of Bianca, blazed red-hot with indignation. At that moment, realization formed in my mind, clear and crisp like a beacon in the night.
Ships destroyed lives.
I called Gene on the spot, screaming at my cell phone over the café’s droning calypso music.
“Gene!” I cried angrily. “What the hell, man?”
“You’ve been warned,” Gene replied faintly over the poor connection. “Another cruise with zero sales? It doesn’t look good for you, Brian. I’m sorry.”
“You should be apologizing,” I snarled. “We’re in goddamn dry dock!”
“You’re in dry
dock?”
“Haven’t you read any of my reports?,” I replied, rather nastily. “You just look at the damn numbers and skip everything else, don’t you?”
“I see,” Gene said slowly. “Well then, I guess we’ll have to fix that at the next advanced training. We could get you in by the end of summer, I think.”
“What?” I exploded. “No way! You guys screwed up, not me. I’m kicking ass on Mariner!”
“Well,” Gene said smoothly, “You’re numbers are OK, but I wouldn’t—”
“Unbelievable!” I cried, cutting him off. “Cut the crap, man! You say that to everybody. My numbers are orders of magnitude better than the last few auctioneers, and you know it.”
Gene was silent a moment, then said, “The ship is going to another auctioneer. He’ll be there in a few days.”
“Then I demand another ship right now!”
“...demand, Buzz?” Gene repeated. His voice was soft, which indicated danger.
“This is the second time Sundance screwed me,” I emphasized, throwing caution to the wind. Bianca may have been wrong about a number of things, but suddenly I realized she was right about one thing.
“I want a ship now. I’m not going on another three month unpaid vacation because of your screw up.”
Gene was quiet for a moment, and I suddenly realized that I had gone too far. One always speaks with Uncle Sam with extreme respect, yet I had been raving like a lunatic. A long minute passed. I listened to the clanking tones of the calypso. Had he hung up? I didn’t want to be the one to ask. I felt like a dork.
“All right, Buzz,” Gene finally said. “I have a ship for you. It’s another small ship with lots of money, but it won’t be open for a month. You’ll board in Athens.”
“Good!” I said, and hung up.
I sat and stewed for awhile. The calypso music was sounding more and more garish by the moment, and my head began to hurt. Life was changing too fast!
Unsinkable Mister Brown (Cruise Confidential 3) Page 34