1
The next time I saw Cosmina she was all smiles. Her ability to smoothly move on after throttling someone's day was a marvel. This had much to do with her ability to take credit for everything good that happened around her, whether she was responsible or not. While all of us have mastered self justification for our indulgences, Cosmina took such rationalization to an entirely new level. But she did not just settle for manipulating her own conscience, oh no....
We were once again in Corfu, Greece. Unlike the previous time in port, I had not assisted Cosmina in organizing her unwieldy groups of touring passengers. When I arrived to the crowded main lounge in the morning to do so, she had casually informed me I wouldn't be needed. I thought nothing of it. After all, we had not parted particularly well the night before. She probably still hated me for my role in slaying babies three thousand years ago. Yet when we crossed paths that afternoon she invited me to her cabin for a drink. I accepted.
Thus that evening I strode down to deck one from my cabin on deck two. In fact, I was the only staff not assigned an interior cabin on deck one. As a reluctant add on, the auctioneer had been given a modified storage closet that happened to be on deck two. Cosmina answered the door in her turquoise Surf polo and decidedly non-corporate short shorts. Her skin was a naturally dark caucasian, making her look tan. She had attractive legs, if growing a bit thicker as they went up, due to her abhorrence of exercise.
"You're welcome," she said, motioning me in.
"Welcome, or you're welcome?" I asked, mildly confused.
"You're welcome," she clarified. "For everything I've done for you."
"You invited me here," I said, now thoroughly confused.
Cosmina shook her head almost sadly, bobbed hair bouncing, as if this poor child before her was too obtuse to understand adult matters. She strode to a table cluttered with pamphlets, brochures, guidebooks, and bottles of perfume. Dominating the top of the mess was a huge block of rough white cheese. Referring to it with a flourish worthy of Vanna White, she said, "See this? This is two kilos of fresh goat cheese. Just a perk from the grateful tour company yesterday. One of many."
I said nothing, sensing an agenda. I was unsure how to proceed.
"I get a lot of perks," Cosmina continued meaningfully. "People do a lot for me because I do a lot for them."
"Of course," I said carefully.
"Did I mention how Ardin once worked for me?" she said casually, sitting upon the bed with affected nonchalance. By folding her legs beneath her, she revealed a lot of intimate skin. She patted the covers for me to sit next to her. This was not the come-hither one would expect living on land because the bed was the only place to sit. Further, she soon hugged a pillow over her lap. No, this was not leading to the über-common cruise ship 'land a first-world fish' conversation.
"Yes, for a few days," Cosmina continued, lighting a cigarette. While I knew she smoked a lot, I was horrified she would do so where she slept. Despite being a copious cigar smoker, I failed to understand how nicotine could dominate life. For me it was all about the comforting ritual when the time was right. For her it was about the necessary high all the time. "Ardin was awful, though. Not like you and me. He was insubordinate and not pro-active. Certainly he wasn't grateful."
"Why would he be grateful for helping you out?"
"You don't think I improved sales of his photographs?" she asked, sucking in a cloud.
Understanding blossomed. Cosmina was used to being the center of attention. She was verily treated like a queen by those on shore, delighting in the gifts grateful tour owners bestowed upon her. She also received swag from guides themselves, for one cross word from her could send them packing. As shore excursions manager she was also treated with respect by Francois, for Wind Surf was all about excursions. Like the monarchies of old and corporate bosses of all ages, she took credit for the work of those beneath her. In short, Cosmina was assuming full credit for my art auction success.
The fact that it was I who volunteered to help her for our mutual benefit was irrelevant. The fact that my auctions were now held in a superior location was irrelevant. The fact that I had thought of the Compass Rose and had to convince Francois to allow it was irrelevant. The fact that it was all blind, dumb luck was irrelevant. Oh no, Cosmina felt my success was entirely because I was her assistant onboard in organizing her clients.
She wanted me to grovel to get my old 'job' back.
"Cosmina," I said sincerely, but carefully, "I am appreciative of the arrangement we have. It helps me, it helps you. But I'm not going to thank you for me doing my job."
"I see," she said, disdaining me with both a sniff and a shrug. A knock sounded at the door. Cosmina bounded up, saying, "He's here!"
"Who's here?"
"The new cruise director," she answered. "The man who will help me with my shore excursions from now on."
2
"Champagne!" a voice cried, pronouncing the word in a decidedly non-English manner. A very small, moderately dark-skinned man held up two bottles of French champagne. This was no mean feat, for beneath both arms he also held two French baguettes. The nuance of his speech clearly indicated his origin as the same as what he peddled. His grin flashed brighter even than when his eyeglasses caught the light.
"Come in, Fabrice!" Cosmina invited, reaching around his arsenal of goodies to give him a warm embrace.
"Ello!" he called to me enthusiastically. "My name eez Fabrice. Like ze fabrique softenair."
I was grateful he repeated his name for clarity, for his accent was extremely thick. His English sounded like a foreign language! It had a wonderful lilt to it, emphasizing many syllables that native speakers shorten. He hurriedly set his baggage on the table and approached to shake hands. Fabrice was even shorter than Yoyo, though he was not nearly as petite. His frame was trim, but thick with strength. No doubt he worked his abdomen constantly with all his laughing. He bubbled with unbounded enthusiasm and was, in a word, adorable.
"It's a pleasure to meet you," I replied, shaking his hand vigorously. He added enthusiasm by cupping our shake with his left hand.
"Yoo like champagne, don't yoo?" he asked. "God's greatest geeft to mahnkind."
"No," I corrected, pointing to the block of cheese. "That's God's greatest gift to mankind."
"Ah, oui!" he cried joyously, rushing over to inspect the goods. His eyes scrutinized the flaking cuts and chalky texture in great detail. Without looking up he asked, "Zees eez from Tooneeseea? Excellent! Eet will not be pasteurized. Très bon!"
"A shame Brian won't be able to have any," Cosmina said with a sly smirk.
I gave Cosmina a flat look and a flat question. "Am I not worthy?"
"You're American," she answered tartly. "You'll get sick if you eat anything unpasteurized."
"I've lived in Romania for the last three years," I pointed out. "One of the first things I discovered was how incomparable unpasteurized cheese is. Americans have absolutely no idea what they're missing."
"And wiz enough champagne," Fabrice added brightly, "Yoo cahn eat a dead feesh right off ze beech and not get seeck!"
Heads swiveled to regard the strange, little man. Under the scrutiny he amended, "Eef yoo so desire."
Bubbly was poured, imbibed, and appreciated. Fabrice had somehow secured bread still fresh from the bakery. Perks of being a cruise director, he said with a smile. He sure knew how to pick it; soft flesh embraced by a superbly crisp crust. Every hand-shorn chunk gently warmed the flesh, the delicate, cloying bakery scent kissed the nose. And the cheese? Pure ambrosia; a subtle blend of chalky and creamy that pasteurized milk is utterly unable to produce. Not that I blame the milk. I wouldn't be at my best after being gamma irradiated with Cobalt-60, either.
Cosmina watched Fabrice and I eagerly working together and enjoying the feast. And a feast it was. Bread and cheese of that magnitude was as satisfying as a five course meal. Yet Cosmina did not join in. Indeed, she looked positively frustrated. Finally, exasperated, she blurted, "Fabrice is French!"
Not missing a beat, Fabrice held up his champagne and said, "I am!"
"Let me guess," I said lightly. "Americans and French aren't supposed to get along."
Reading each others' mind, we clinked champagne glasses.
"You seem un'appy, Cosi," Fabrice correctly observed. "'ave some champagne. It's excellent!"
"I don't like champagne," Cosmina muttered, turning her back to us and lighting another cigarette.
"At least dine wiz us!" Fabrice pushed. "It eez excellent."
"I don't like goat cheese," Cosmina sniffed.
"Would you prefer something American?" I teased over a mouthful of awesomeness.
"I'm European!" she snapped, cutting herself a huge chunk, proverbial nose in the air. She gobbled down the big handful of cheese aggressively, actions straining the credulity of words.
"So where are you from?" I asked Fabrice as we settled into our meal.
"Sete," he said. "A coastahl villahge. Vairee beautiful."
He proceeded to narrate with a strong, deep French accent. His words were muddy and difficult to understand. Despite this, he was an enthralling, animated storyteller.
"We'll be visiting een a week or so. I can show yoo ze first ship I ever sailed on. Eet's still zere, all nets and feesh guts. Oui, what a mess zat was. I was fourteen years old and one night I asked my mothair to wake me at tree in ze mornang and take me to ze pier. She asked why, so I told 'air I had signed on as a feesherman. Zat was ze first she'd 'aird about it. She was not 'appy. Of course, she was even less 'appy when I came home tree weeks latair. I stank of feesh. Oui, ze smell! I walked een when my family was 'aving deennair and she ordered me back outside. I was made to streep naked right zere at ze front door so she could trow my clothes in ze trash. But I still stank of feesh. It gets eento your 'air and shampoo won't get eet out. Eet gets eento your skin and soap won't wash eet off. I smelled like feesh for weeks—longer zan I was out catching zem!"
While Fabrice giggled pleasantly at the memory of havoc, I looked to Cosmina. She sat back on her bed, deep in a haze of smoke that looked like it had settled in for the night. Each time Fabrice mentioned the smell of fish, she flinched.
"And not only did I steenk of feesh," he continued blithely, "but even my bedsheets began steenking of feesh. I slept wiz mackerell all suhmmair."
That did it. His referring to stinking sheets put her over the edge.
"Stop already!" Cosmina cried, hands clutching her belly. Her face looked pained, like somebody had punched her in the stomach. She jumped up and whipped open the door. "Out! Get out."
Recognizing her urgency, we complied.
"I'll see you in the morning, Fabrice," Cosmina said, shooting a meaningful look at me. Though in discomfort, she was still able to make a jab.
"Toomorrow mornang?" Fabrice said, frowning. "I'm sorry, but I can't help you. I 'ave meetings all mornang."
Now Cosmina really did look like somebody punched her. She stammered, "Wha...? What meetings?"
"Zee old cruise director eez leaving. I need to see 'im off with a propair 'andovair. Zen I 'ave meetings wiz Francois all mornang. What about you, Brian? Can you help Cosmina in ze mornang? Francois says you are very good wiz crowds, even suggesting we can work togethair on—"
Cosmina cut him off, saying, "I can handle it." She shooed us out, trying to hide her grimace. Her stomach audibly roiled.
After the door slammed shut behind us, Fabrice and I looked at each other in the hallway. A moment passed, then we both burst out laughing. "I warned 'air," he said ruefully, "She should 'ave drunk ze champagne!"
Poor Cosmina. Her perfectly planned evening went badly awry. I wasn't entirely sure why she hoped Fabrice and I wouldn't get along. True, in that year of 2005 America and France were still very much at odds over the Iraq invasion. But working on ships, she should have known better than to think international crew would let petulant nonsense like 'Freedom Fries' dictate how we felt about each other. We got along famously.
But her miscalculations went beyond failed hopes for conflict over nationality, failed hopes for jealousy over the cheese, and failed hopes for groveling over the 'job'. Not only was Fabrice unable to assist her the next morning, but Cosmina spent the whole disastrous day working alone with a horribly sick stomach from cheese she didn't even want to eat. For once the joke was entirely on her.
3
The company I worked for, Sundance at Sea, made an aggressive takeover of the gift shops on the majority of the world's cruise ships. This would not surprise anyone who had actually met the highly energetic and enigmatic Sundance owner, Frederick. His appetite was gargantuan, his pockets deep. He was also the world's worst micromanager. In order to keep the new acquisitions under his direct supervision, he gave control of each gift shop to the ship's resident auctioneer. Thus I suddenly became in charge of the Wind Surf's gift shop.
Frederick was literally a genius of the highest caliber—he was consulted by MIT, for cryin' out loud—and assumed his employees were equally capable of mastering any new subject as quickly and as thoroughly as he. I would argue that being able to sell $100,000 Picassos was not qualification for successfully hustling $10,000 worth of ashtrays and T-shirts every week. If anything, it was the other way around! I was not happy about this one whit, and feared a nasty collision with Janie, the gift shop manager. I need not have worried. In her usual cheerleading manner, she expressed unbounded enthusiasm for the change. The fact that her paperwork would get double-checked before being sent up the ladder didn't hurt, either.
I happened to have dinner that night in port with Janie and one of her employees, not to mention a bunch of Wind Surf's other usual suspects. While groups of colleagues on the big ships do occasionally meet up during port stops—I'd had many a debauched lunch with various waiter mafias—it is unusual to have a multi-disciplinary dinner off the ship. After the setting sun turned aquamarine waters fitful black, a mixed bag of 'family' tendered to port. While I represented the art department and Janie and Melanie represented the gift shop, attendees also included Yoyo the photog, Eddie the dive instructor, Cosmina of shore excursion fame, Fabrice the cruise director, and spa giantess, Natalie.
And what a mesmerizing port it was! Hvar island in Croatia is simply gorgeous; an ancient place with well worn and well trodden public squares and walks built right up to the sea. This was necessary, since the entire island averaged a measly seven miles wide—which included a mountain range. During the day, Hvar (pronounced 'far' for some bizarre Croat reason) island looked little more than a huge, ungainly line of limestone. Yet nestled into its nooks, crannies, and sea-worn edges were gorgeous structures of stone. Everything was of stone, in fact, whether hewn and hauled by man or risen and eroded by nature.
The limestone of Hvar is dirty white. At a glance it is very similar to creamy Maltese limestone, but upon closer inspection it doesn't have the purity of color or luminosity. That's not to say it isn't beautiful. Records indicate a bunch of Hvar's limestone was exported all the way to Berlin for the parliament and other governmental buildings. That's not surprising, as the Germans at one time controlled Hvar—as did the Greeks, Romans, Byzantines, Venetians, Bosnians, Hungarians, Venetians again, Byzantines again, Germans, French, and who knows who else. Surely the Turks were involved in there somewhere, and probably some Martians as well. All told, over thirty empires have run the thin strip of stone. Though currently under the dominion of Croatia, it was being utterly invaded by Italians. Droves of them filled the streets, looking beautiful, smoking cigarettes, and speaking not only loudly but also with their hands. Hvar boasted the highly dubious claim of being the sunniest spot in all of Europe, and the Italians were intent to find out the truth of the matter.
But we saw the island at night, squinting through the tender's scratched plexiglass at forested islets along the way. Incorrectly translated as Hell's Islands, it was frequently raised there. But our destination was the long, cut-stone quay built by the Venetians to hold their fleet long, long ago. The seaside strip was dark, broken only by lights from the abutting windows of venerable apartments. Ancient stone is best when shadowed. The tender pulled up to the dark quay and the few people shuffled out. Between the noisy, gassy revving of the engine thumped the heavy bass of techno music. The alluring call of modern sirens thumped from the far edge of the quay, where silhouettes of slender bodies gyrated against a backdrop of neon and flames.
Cosmina did not lead us towards the ultra clubs, however, but to the other end of the quay, where it opened into the town square. Dominating the corner was the 'new' arsenal. New was relative, of course, as it was built in the late 1500s to fight the Turks. It reminded me of a gargantuan, five-story barn, but instead of doors it offered an archway large enough to bring inside the galleys in case of invasion. Currently it was stoned up and more or less smooth, which summed up the political situation, as well.
Our group reluctantly passed the beastly building and into the yawning silence of the wide square. No music met the ear, no life met the eye. The only movement was wavering gaslight, which kept the square in mystery. The occasional lighted window above peeked down from the darkness warily, as if we were the invading Turks of long ago. The far end was dominated by a stone church and resident belfry rearing into the night.
"This place is creeping me out," Natalie complained, footsteps echoing off empty flagstone. "It's like wandering in a spooky old castle."
"I'll protect you!" Yoyo consoled. Giggling, he jumped into the air in a vain attempt to reach her height.
Yoyo's levity did little to ease our trepidation, which soon heightened as Cosmina led us into a narrow road between two sentry-like stone behemoths. The flagstones angled up sharply, for the city itself began climbing the steep ridges that formed the spine of the island. Looming buildings leaned in menacingly. After a few twists and turns in the near darkness, the alley-like road opened—swelled, really—just enough to allow a few tables before an octagonal, four-story dwelling. A paltry few gas lamps sputtered, stretching shadows from iron clamps hammered into fitted stone. Above the minimally-inviting tables staggered windows, uneven, shuttered tight.
"We dining with Dracula, or what?" Natalie exclaimed in awe. 'I think there's a serial killer here somewhere."
"You're the one with claws like Wolverine," Janie pointed out. "What am I gonna do?"
"Don't cheerleaders know how to kick?" Natalie shot back.
"Natalie's right," Mel the shoppie urged. "I don't want to eat here."
"Yoo 'aven't even seen ze menu!" Fabrice teased. "Peel and eat eyeballs, pair'aps? A good chef can make anyzing delicious. Sauteed wiz a little white wine and garlic, excellent!"
Cosmina's hands went to her belly and she passed a sour look. After recovering, she quickly slapped Fabrice on the shoulder. He mimed great pain, then continued with a devilish grin, "Boiled brains wiz geengair to 'elp settle your stohmach."
"I was told they have great pizza by those who know," Cosmina explained haughtily—too haughtily. Her tone indicated overcompensation of setting, not stomach. I strongly suspected she was just as freaked out by the haunting atmosphere as the rest of us. Certainly it was the most Medieval pizzeria I had ever seen. When the door to the restaurant creaked open, I expected nothing less than a minion wheeling out an iron maiden. Instead it was the proprietor, who helped us pull tables together. Several bottles of red wine were ordered. Natalie stuck to beer.
Inspired by—or, rather, intimidated by—the setting, the seven of us felt particularly close that night. Certainly we leaned in close. But forced joviality soon became the real thing. After a few glasses of wine we found ourselves having a grand old time. Laughter wafted up over those shuttered windows, all the way to the stars. Multi-disciplinary shop talk swept joyfully back and forth like world-class tennis players in a friendly pick-up match. I shared with Yoyo the basics of artistic composition to help with his photography. Cosmina explained to Natalie the benefits of using Janie and Mel as tour hosts, not to mention her brilliant idea of using Fabrice and I for her onboard organization. Natalie protested that she wanted to be a tour host as well, but Cosmina quickly dashed that by saying she was 'unreliable'. After the rest of us surreptitiously pointed at Yoyo—an occasional tour host himself—Cosmina quickly amended that Natalie was 'uncontrollable'. This new explanation not only mollified, but actually pleased Natalie.
I sat beside Natalie and, on the other side, Cosmina—as always, whether I liked it or not. I secretly wished Faye had been present, just to keep Cosmina good and riled. Turns out that was not necessary. After the pizzas arrived, so, too, did Eddie's girlfriend Susie.
"What the hell, Eddie?" she demanded before even stepping into the light. Even had we not recognized the voice, Eddie's flinch was a dead giveaway.
"I told you I was going out to dinner," Eddie protested, rising from his chair. He snagged another from a neighboring table and squeezed it next to his own. "You said you didn't want to come."
"Not with everybody, you didn't!" she accused.
"You thought I would leave you in the cabin to tender into port alone?"
"I can see how wanted I am," she fumed, plopping down, arms folded firmly beneath her breasts. Eddie looked appropriately chagrined and said nothing further.
"Eddie was just telling us the funniest story," Cosmina enthusiastically lied to Susie. "He's sooo funny when he's happy."
"I'm sure," Susie replied flatly.
Eddie, not knowing what to do, meekly sipped his wine in silence. Halfway through the action, however, he gave a sigh and rose. "All right," he said to Susie. "Let's go."
"But the pizza just got here!" I protested. "We have plenty for everyone."
Alas, our arguments stood little chance of softening Susie's icy demeanor. But Eddie took it all in stride, generously reassuring us, "It's okay. I'll catch you guys next time."
They strode down the alley, into darkness. We returned our attention to the pizza, but something felt wrong. As if the setting weren't creepy enough, from the darkness emanated a heavy breathing.
"Okay, that's not funny!" Janie shouted to the dark. "Hey, asshole! You can cut it out."
A huffing and puffing sounded just outside the light, directly behind Natalie. With startling suddenness a heavy hand fell upon the back of her chair.
"Jesus, Rick!" Natalie cried, jumping up. "I thought you were a serial killer!"
Into the light slouched a solid man with thick shoulders and slight paunch. His short hair was slicked forward with sweat, and he looked ready to pass out. Yet while still wheezing he gamely pawed at her shoulders. "Up, woman," he growled, "Can't you see I'm dying here?"
Natalie relinquished her chair to the newcomer, this Rick. He was a sorry sight, with sweat soaking strange patterns into his turquoise Wind Surf polo shirt. It was an amusing pairing with the gold hoop he wore in his ear. Rather than a pirate, he was more like the Big Bad Wolf: huffing and puffing. Still, he managed to down Natalie's beer in record time.
"Fine," Natalie harrumphed. "I'll get my own chair. Have you guys met Rick? He's the new spa manager."
"Not for bloody long!" Rick complained. "Nobody told me I'd be running a bloody haunted spa!"
"If you're trying to scare us," Janie chided, "You can stop. This place is scary enough."
Rick glanced around, apparently noticing the macabre surroundings for the first time. With a solemn nod he said, "Fair dinkum. Bloody ghosts should hang here, not at my bloody spa!"
"All right," I told him, "You've got us hooked. I love ghost stories."
Rick shook his head as if to clear it of cobwebs, or perhaps the memory. After a swig of beer and a sigh, he narrated, "I saw it last night, too. I wasn't sure then. I'd heard Camilla's stupid story, but thought she was a couple bangers short of a barbie."
"She's new, so be nice!" Natalie chided. "Besides, I've seen weird things, too."
"And Natalie's seen things, too," Rick repeated.
The spa was down by the waterline of Wind Surf, back near the marina. At night it was a very quiet, very lonely place. Strange that such a small ship utilizing every cubic inch of guest space had locations that felt... abandoned. There were cabins nearby and people coming and going from the spa, to be sure, but something about the spa's location did feel somehow different.
"I've noticed things moving behind the desk," Rick said. "But it's hard to tell when bloody staplers move on their own when you have four employees. But you know the melon slices we keep in the urn of drinking water? I heard a gurgle or something and looked up in their direction. In the blink of an eye—in the blink of a bloody eye—they vanished! Then—splat! Right in front of me, right in the middle of the desk, the melons reappeared. All the bloody things. Soaked my ledger and all my paperwork and everything."
"Oh my God!" Natalie gasped, clapping her hands over her mouth. Nails clicked. "What did you do?"
"What'd I do? I cleaned it up, you cow. What'd you think I'd do? Bloody weird, if you ask me, but—I don't know—somehow not real enough to worry over. That was yesterday. I'd only been aboard two days, so I thought it was just a ragging or some other prank on the new guy. Don't ask me how they'd bloody pull it off. But tonight was different. I was doing paperwork after we closed. A guest walked right past me."
"A ghost?" Janie gasped, enrapt.
"A guest, mate," Rick clarified, looking slightly miffed that she had stolen his thunder. "A bloody guest. I saw her clearly as she passed. Middle-aged, long brown hair, and a T-shirt that made her look chunky. I told her we're closed for the night, but she just walked through the spa and into Natalie's massage room. I followed right behind her, calling out. I was cranky, actually, because I've had a bad time with stupid passengers complaining all bloody day. I was going to give this lady a piece of my mind. When I got to Natalie's room I flipped the light switch on... and nobody was there!"
"I'm switching rooms with Camilla," Natalie firmly declared.
"I don't believe it!" Mel declared firmly. "You're just trying to scare us."
"Yeah, Rick," Natalie said, giving her manager an accusing slug on the arm.
"We live with many spirits in my culture," Yoyo added. "They are everywhere."
"Oh, oui,” Fabrice agreed. "On Wind Surf, too. Zere ees more zan one ghost aboard."
All eyes swiveled to the petite Frenchman. He smiled gamely.
"I 'aven't seen eet zis contract," he explained cheerfully in his muddled accent. "But my last contract I saw eet two or tree times, just outside my office."
"Your office is next to my office!" Cosmina blurted, shocked.
"Oui," Fabrice agreed cheerily. I leaned in, anticipating his thick accent. I focused heavily on his words, because I wasn't about to miss any of this story!
"In ze allway. Actually right outside ze door to ze pursair's offeece, dead-centair of ze ship. Ah ha—dead-centair—I just got that! I saw ze shadowy outline of a man... but only from ze waist up! I could not see 'iz face, but only a meest. I'm not sure why I even say he was a man, but eet felt like eet. Each time I looked up at 'im, 'ee just faded eento ze dark. Divina—you know ze Filipina pursair?—she saw 'im, too. She was on an errand for more papier. She was een an hurree and ran out of 'air office carrying a load and ran into ze phantom. She screamed, thinking she 'ad run eento an offisair. She saw 'ee was caucasian and of average 'ight, but no more. She couldn't even remember if she saw 'iz legs or not.
"But she saw 'iz face clearly," Fabrice narrated. "Because eet was daylight, and Divina's office 'as a window. Eet was bright. Ee looked as solid as yoo and me, and she met 'iz gaze. 'Ee looked as surprised as her! But zere was somezing else as well. A sense of 'opelessness. Very gloomy, very sad. Zees I understand. Though I 'aven't seen ze phantom zees contract yet, I 'ave felt 'iz presence. Sometimes when I'm working late I will feel someone approaching. I'll look up, but no one ees zere. Even zough I don't see anyone, I can feel 'im watching. Just like I do 'ere."
"Stop it!" Janie snapped. She was definitely getting into the spirit of the conversation. Telling ghost stories over red wine in Dracula's castle was sure to evoke some powerful impressions.
"Bloody hell," Rick concluded. "The lady I saw looked just like another fat housewife. But seeing only half a man...? I'd get the hell out of there. In fact, I did get the hell out of there. Had to run to catch the last tender. Guess I'm out of shape. After ten bloody years in the British Army, I didn't plan to ever run again!"
"The British Army? Your accent is Australian," Cosmina said, suddenly intrigued. She had been distinctly ignoring the ghost stories, but now heard something pertaining to her interests. She sidled seductively closer—elbowing me out of the way—and huskily asked, "Tell me about... England."
Rick gave her a scrutinizing look, then leaned in. His demeanor shifted from panting and goofy to smooth. "What would you like to know?"
Cosmina leaned across even further, stabbing an elbow in my gut to do so. The pain was a small price to pay for her switching targets.
"I want it all," she breathed seductively, as if they weren't surrounded by half a dozen others with raised brows. Yoyo, in particular, watched with open fascination. "Everything you've got. I want—"
An awkward rumble rose from beneath the table, followed by a liquid churning and bubbling, then finally a caustic odor. Cosmina's eyes widened in horror. In a flash she was gone from the table. It happened so fast we were all left as wide-eyed as Yoyo.
Natalie finally broke the silence. Clicking her claw-like nails together, she observed, "Rick, you sure got a way with women."
4
I had never before had such a night on ships, with so much interdisciplinary support, even reliance. While success usually involved relationships, such were very hard to come by at sea; people came and went on the big ships by the dozens every single cruise. Once again I was struck by how not big this ship was. For the first time, this did not bother me. In fact, for the first time I was downright pleased by it. I was struck by the sudden desire to make Wind Surf a home as long as I could. I had never felt that way about a ship before, beyond the fundamental fact that longer tenure meant more job security. Yes, for the first time I 'got it'. I was, indeed, a member of the family.
Oh, sailors were all a member of an extended family. We were part of a club that the outside didn't understand and never could. Our experiences connected us and we supported each other, even when we hated each other. The life gets in your blood, kind of like being in the military or the police force—minus the danger, of course. But this was different. This wasn't a small town vibe, where everybody knew everybody's secrets simply because of proximity. This was intimacy, this was family.
The cast was nearly complete, the family—which made my time on Wind Surf the best of all my career—nearly whole. Over the ensuing months I would get to know these players and their machinations intimately, officers and crew alike. Before my eyes some would grow not just professionally, but emotionally, dependent upon each other. Others would soon grow to loathe each other. Such chiaroscuro of light and dark defined my role as well. For on Wind Surf I made friends for life, loyal even after ships. I also made enemies—one in particular—whose duplicity would hound me even after returning to land life.
You can choose your friends, but you can't choose your family.