After a long day of translated Shakespearian pontifications blared through headphones, I was on a bus full of giddy foreigner experiencing a true conference perk: the organized outing. When registering you could pick any number of touristy side trips, and I always did as they featured sight-seeing to local historical areas or some such entertaining fare. The outing I was currently being driven to was a 2-hour sunset cruise to take in the ocean at its finest. I had been looking forward to this all conference.
As noted in the brochure, we were to meet at the conference center in the late afternoon, take an hour and a half bus ride through the countryside and end-up at some bay famous for snorkeling and scuba diving and other activities that get you eaten by sharks. From there we were to be whisked away for an evening of drinks and hors d’oeuvres on a cruise ship, in all I could imagine would be big red velvet cushioned couches snuggled deep inside the ship, where handsome waiters would pass me shrimp cocktails as large as basketballs, as the ocean glided gracefully by outside. I was prepared for luxury that even Robin Leech would choke on.
Once the bus pulled into the marina, we poured out to see no cruise ship at all, just small boats. As a group, the sixty or so of us craned our heads and looked around until the bus driver pointed to a diminutive sail boat directly ahead of us.
“Over there!” he hollered from the bus, “That one. The catamaran.”
And with that I almost just darted right back on the bus.
Now a catamaran, for those of you without your sea legs, is a not-very-large-at-all pontoon styled sail boat, open to the water –and not a cruise ship at all-rather one of those sailboats with names like ‘Vitalus’ or ‘Erectus,’ you see Ted Turner or other rich old men racing around the world, as they drank brown drink from a cut crystal glass with a bikinied blond woman hung to them. I could not see that name of the boat but assumed it was ‘Final Mistake,’ or ‘Watery Grave.’
But surely this wasn’t our boat? We were going on a cruise-which implied ‘cruise ship.’ I looked around to make sure we weren’t being punked. No, as there were no cameras. And then it hit me: How were 60 of us even going to fit onto a boat that appeared to have been built to hold about 20?
And a hush fell over the previously excited crowd, as I assumed the other academics had also just come to this same conclusion: there were too many of us for the one tiny boat.
Shakespearians as a rule of thumb are not risk takers: one: because most of them are old, and two: they seldom left their house except to go to the office or to teach, or go hide in the library stacks.
There is no extreme sporting among the literary.
And let me tell you did I contemplate just hustling back to hide on that bus, and from the rumblings of the crowd I could tell others were thinking the same thing.
But as if on cue, a pretty blonde girl in tiny shorts emerged from the catamaran and screamed, “Okay, everybody, hey! Welcome aboard! Just come on up, but stay on the plank so you don’t fall in the water…”
Small brown crewmen scurried out from behind her and lowered a plank from the boat to the dock. We, the crowd, eyed her suspiciously, silent and unmoving. You could have heard a copy of The Tempest drop.
I looked back to the bus frantically, as did a few others. But I didn’t even know if the boat was coming back here; it might be dropping us off somewhere else at the end of the cruise, which means this bus might not even be going back to town. And looking around the marina, there were no cabs or even stores where I might wait to call a cab-and how much would a cab be for an hour and a half back to my hotel? My lovely safe hotel.
I “Come on, ya’ll! Get on!” The pretty girl in the tiny shorts sang. “Let’s get this party started. Woo!”
The tiny catamaran bobbed up in down in the water in a viscerally angry way, like a pig trying to loosen wild burrs.
“I thought it would be a bigger boat,” a rotund British man said.
“Yes. A big boat,” an Afrikaner added in his Dutch accident.
The crowd murmured in agreement.
“Woo! Come on!” The girl said, dancing around in her long-legged beauty. “It’ll be fun!”
And then one by one people started to queue up as the crowd mentality kicked in and people started walking up the plank, heads down, clearly afraid.
I looked back to see the bus driving off. So that was that: No exit. And even though suddenly I wanted to, did I dare throw a screaming crying fit in front of my respected peers? And that option was even ending quickly as people continued to plod onto the boat one by one.
So I did what everyone else did, and just queued-up and boarded. The whole thing felt like the beginning of Amistad, and I worried if the African contingency would begin having flashbacks.
Oh, and it was so much worse than anticipated. The only real structure on the boat was a big plastic bar in the middle of the deck. The only seating was a plastic bench all around half of the interior, which afforded seating for about 30. I used my massive American height and weight to push through the discombobulated masses to get a seat. Sorry to the women and the elderly, but I was not going to be standing up on this open air monstrosity when it took to sea.
I ended-up next to some shy Japanese women, two despondent Danish men and a mouthy Frenchman who kept saying, “But this is not a cruise ship! We were told in the brochure it would be a cruise ship!” The pretty blonde girl responded to each of his calls with, “Woo! This’ll be great! Woo!”
The Dane closest to me leaned in to say, “This wasn’t what I was thinking. I hate the sea. I thought it would be a bigger boat...” And I agreed, alas poor Yorick. But looking around, I was glad at least I got a seat, as everyone else just had to stand kinda free-floating in the middle of the deck, like they were waiting for an elevator. And the boat was going up and down, and up and down and up and down, and we were still at the dock.
An old alcoholic pirate of a man in a tennis shirt and dirty white shorts emerged from the hold to cough, “Aye-I’m your Captain.” He barked commands and said, “Snacks are up here-and it’s all the rum ye can drink! But if you see me grab a bottle and a life-jacket, you might want to be following!” And no one really laughed, realizing at that moment we might be about to die on the open sea, while this AA-reject worried about saving the booze first. And seeing our fear and academic consternation, the Captain just laughed contemptuously like a particularly effective Scooby Doo villain.
So I tuned him out and focused on not crying in public, and how important it was for my career not to cry in front of all of my international peers, as no one wants to buy a book written by a crybaby, not even one who died nobly at sea. I thought about Thad and how he would tell me ‘It’ll be okay,” and how that would calm me. But he wasn’t there to carry me to safety like he was at Gaga.
My ears perked up as I hear the Captain say, “And if you haveta go to the bathroom…” which of course I did, to make this the perfect storm of Titanic terror: trapped on an overcrowded slave ship, desperately having to pee.
The Captain continued, “The bathroom is down below, and you got to go down that ladder over there-backwards-and the bathrooms, they’re at the bottom.”
I literally snorted out loud. What? Were we on a reality show? Was this how they had decided to wean the world of famous Shakespearians? Whoever could go to the bathroom on an overcrowded boat wouldn’t be kicked off the island? Jesus Jumping Christ!
But amid my snark and pop, the boat lurched backwards, then forwards and the sail spun around as little brown men with cat eyes in little shorts ran around pulling ropes, and the sail unfurled and shot up and spun back around to catch the wind and we were moving before we knew it. The boat began going up and down and up and down and up and down, and within minutes we left the marina and were out at sea and it was just the most horrifyingly terrible experience I could ever imagine.
The sea was angry that day, like a fat lady in too tight of panties. See, there was a hurricane coming, and I had heard on the news that the water was choppier than normal, and, boy howdy, could you tell out on it. I had first noticed how aggressive the tide was when I had been down at the beach last night, as it seeming like it was trying to drag me in, like it was mad we ever left it in the first place. So the up and down and up and down we had experienced in the marina was nothing to the UP AND DOWN AND UP AND DOWN of the wide open devouring, hurricane enraged sea.
Rule 10. Be afraid of Hurricanes.
I shook uncontrollably as water splashed us as wave after wave crashed into the ship. Everyone around me just held on for their dear lives, except the Frenchman who tried to get up to get food. He just fell back down with a “Woosh!” and another cry of, “This is not a cruise ship!” The blond girl just waved from behind the big bar, “Woo!” The timid Danes picked at their clothing, apparently so freaked out that not either of them could even look up.
And then I really looked up for the first time, as I had forgotten to do that as I had been so focused on not dying. I looked up and out at the majestic ocean, but it was just too much and too up and down and I just had to look back away. Stupid ocean.
And time went so slow, measured by wave after wave smacking into the boat, each one signifying the father and father we were from the shore.
As we sailed, everyone around continued to cling to anything that would hold them stable except for the Chinese, who were grouped together in the middle of the deck, unfettered. And I don’t know if was their low centers of gravity or what, but as we really got out into the choppy water, they all began to fall: one over another, in a splay of sadness and terror. And they tried to help each other up, but then another would fall, and I should have rose-these were tiny round old men and women falling-but I could not, as I was not going to give up my seat, as it was the only thing keeping me from screaming and frothing at the mouth, running and shaking people uncontrollably and screaming, “Turn this God-Damn thing around and take me home you bastards!”
And then the Danes began to vomit.
I guess one went, then the other.
I was not sure, but whatever the case, it was copious, like they had just had a free Shoney’s smorgasbord buffet.
And then the Japanese women on the other side of them began to cry. Cry real Japanese lady tears. One of them became so completely unfettered that her friend had to lay her down, but in order to do that people had to rise to make space for her, so then there were even less seats and even more people standing trying not to fall like the unfortunate Chinese or vomit like the Danes. And I was resolute not to give up my seat, as it was literally the only thing holding me down. So I just held my ground and tried not to vomit and just looked at the floor where paper plates and plastic cups from the bar rolled back and forth with the rocking and dipping and diving of the ship, and the up and down and the back and forth and the up and down of the rocking of the ship.
And all this time, as I could think besides “I’m gonna die! I’m gonna die!” was, “I have to pee! I have to pee!”
This went on for about 45 tense awful minutes before Captain Drunkie apparently correctly assessed the situation through his boozy-filled glasses announced, “Okie Dokey, it looks like ye had enough. We’ll go ahead and take her back in.” And he turned the boat around and headed us back to the marina.
For the first time since we got on that dreaded Raft of the Medusa, my stomach unclenched. Everyone suddenly started smiling, even the Danes covered in their own vomit, as we knew we would soon be safe.
And feeling better, I looked back out at the sea and it was lovely, all oceany and all, with a beautiful orange and purple sunset behind us. But really, a postcard would have been fine. I did not have to experience this first hand. I mean it felt kinda like a house fire, it’s best not to view it from the inside.
In this gap of fear I finally realized how hungry I was and how desperate I really did need to pee. So biting the anchor, I decided to take both out at once: I would go to the bar for food and then down the ladder to the bathrooms. If I lost my seat now it would be fine as we were heading home; land was quickly approaching over the waves.
Forcing myself up, legs all a’wobble, I made it three steps before the ship pitched the opposite direction and I was thrown against the bar, but at least it was something stable to hang onto. Pushing people politely out of the way, I pulled my way around it to finally see our gloriously buffet. There were nacho chips, a tub of salsa, grapes, and miniature cheese blocks. And that’s it. For $125 I paid! So much for elegant shrimp cocktails from handsome waiters as I lay on red velvet cushions!
But starving, having not had dinner in preparation for this grand feast, I grabbed a handful of the little cheese blocks and popped them in my mouth. And as I rebalanced myself against the bar and chewed, I tasted sweaty sea cheese; sweaty sea cheese that felt like it had been in someone else’s mouth for about ten minutes previous. But, really, should I have expected anything other?
Carefully moving myself between handgrips on the bar, I finally made it to the bathroom ladder on the far opposite wall. Looking down the hold, there was a small hall with a door to the men’s on one side and to the woman’s on the other. There was no one in line, so it was perfect, I just had to remember how the Captain had said to go down the ladder. It was only 4 rungs, but was it front ways or back ways? Why was it so god-damn hard to get to the bathroom? Really? Was this a 15th century church bathroom?
I started down front ways, as the ship pitched back and forth and then up and down, and then my bag got caught, and…and…I just gave up. I just didn’t care anymore, it was all just too challenging, and I didn’t care with the vomiting and crying and the up and the down, so I just let go and did a trust fall into the floor of the tiny hold, landing in a crumpled mess at the bottom. WHAP! I didn’t care how I looked; I just didn’t care, I just wanted to go home and be with Thad and fuss and argue with him, as that was so much easier than trying to survive out on the open sea. And I just laid there, and that was the most comfortable I had been so far on that awful ship yet.
But pulling myself up, I got in the men’s bathroom and then couldn’t go as each time the boat would go up and down my head would smack into the wall-as apparently boat bathrooms are made for wee folk- and I couldn’t focus and it was just all so horrible with the taste of the sweaty sea cheese and then my head whacking into the wall again and then I would right myself and then WHACK! –WHACK!- that I just decided to risk a ruptured bladder and gave up and climbed back up the ladder and went and stood in the corner of the boat as, yes, of course I had lost my seat-until the God-damn boat pulled back into the God-damn marina and we all streamed off of there like good little soldiers, some still covered in their own tears and vomit.
Ah, the joys of the sea.
After this, nothing about the conference was upsetting. I had looked evil in the face and it was the angry sea. I went to meetings and met more contacts and did some more touring, and talked to Thad about seventeen times a day, and he seemed sober most of the time. I even found a publisher interested in Whores in Musicals. And when I flew home it was even without any bouncing or singing aisle-mates. But through all of it whenever I would close my eyes, I could still feel that rocking and dipping and diving, and the up and down and the back and forth and the up and down of the rocking of the awful, awful sea.
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