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Aboard the Aqua Meridian
Shake Rattle and Roll
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TORONTO’S SKYSCRAPERS AND traffic have receded into a foggy blur and all I see are muted shades of blue and gray beyond the rail. I take another sip of my wine, allowing the terrible events of the day to dissolve in the unexpected pleasure of the moment. It’s surprisingly good, not that I’m a connoisseur. Something about the wine and the water have put me in a nostalgic frame of mind. My thoughts drift to earlier voyages and I feel my strength returning. I remember my boyhood on the River Aire, idyllic voyages along the coast of Crete, that awful troop ship during the war, and finally the great ocean crossing that brought me and Bess to Canada. But after that, nothing. I can’t recall anything but ferry boat rides to the Toronto Islands. Why did I stop sailing with a great lake so close at hand?
Scanning the deck, I realize this ship is much larger than it appeared from the dock, and I’m amazed by the number of passengers strolling by. They’re surprisingly well dressed for a lake cruise, and I nod appreciatively as a group of young women in colorful skirts and blouses pass, giggling and chattering the way girls do. There’s a little boy in a sailor outfit still holding one of the red balloons they handed out on the pier, and a large man with a tiny dog wearing a nautical scarf around its neck. Very amusing, I’m having a wonderful time. An attractive young woman in a swimming outfit hurries past. I’m not too old to appreciate a shapely bosom and I am delighted by the flamboyant jiggle and bounce even these old eyes can’t fail to notice. As she walks past, I salute her with my glass then finish off my drink. Since the nice young man with the wine is nowhere to be seen, I decide to venture inside to see if I can snag another glass.
The ship is now moving at quite a clip and the deck heaves slightly as gentle waves break against her bow. I steady myself by hanging on to deck chairs as I make my way toward the nearest door. Suddenly, a new thought stops me short and I pause, confused. Why was the woman wearing a bathing suit? Surely, there can’t be a swimming pool onboard, or am I wrong? The boat is larger than I imagined, but a pool? It’s all a pleasant muddle and, for the moment, all I know for sure is that I want another drink.
As I step through the doorway, I find that I’ve regained my balance but then I’m shaken by the sight of a sumptuous lobby. There’s wall to wall carpet on the floor and fancy chandeliers hanging from a paneled ceiling. Not what I’d expected. Apparently, a free ticket on this ship was quite a prize. I hadn’t realized.
“May I help you?” A waiter or a steward or whatever is at my elbow, bowing slightly from the waist. He can’t be Canadian. Canadians don’t bow.
“Yes, I was wondering where I could get another glass of wine.”
“Certainly, may I see your ticket?”
He’s no less courteous, but I ruffle at a certain officiousness in his tone as I search in my pocket for the ticket. I hand it over without a word and watch as he examines it.
“You’ll find the tourist class lounge up the staircase to your right. All food and beverages are included. Enjoy your trip.”
He hands my ticket back and I turn toward the grand, open staircase leading to an upper deck. It seems to go on forever. Sighing, I ask, “Is there an elevator? I’m not sure these old legs are up to all those stairs.”
He nods sympathetically. “Don’t worry, you’ll have your sea-legs in no time, but for the moment try the elevator across from the information desk.”
I thank him and hurry off in search of another drink. Had he said food and beverages were included? Was there food upstairs as well? The display above the elevator door indicates the car is currently on deck four. When number two lights up, the door opens, and I get in. Suddenly, not sure where I’m going, I ask the elevator operator, an older gentleman in a smart uniform and white gloves, where to find the tourist class lounge.
“Smoking lounge or the game room?”
“I’m not sure. The steward said I could get a drink in the tourist class lounge. That’s all I know.”
“That’s the smoking lounge on deck three. It also offers sandwiches and pastries until five.” He pulls a large lever, and the doors open to reveal a narrow hallway. “It’s just to the right. You can’t miss it.”
“Thank you. Yes, I see it, thank you very much.” A neon sign that reads, GROUCHO’S LOUNGE, in garish blue light is clearly visible. A group of cheerful people pass, smiling and nodding as we all head in the same direction. The lounge, a large room with a low ceiling and simple, modern furnishings, has a beautiful unobstructed view of the water. The room is packed and humming with activity. There are groups seated at round tables, a line of people waiting for their turn at the buffet, and a smattering of loners leaning up against the bar. Nat King Cole is crooning something through the speakers on the ceiling, but it’s hard to hear him with so many people talking and laughing all at once. I join the loners at the bar and try to catch the bartender’s attention.
He proves to be as friendly and efficient as the rest of the crew, immediately smiling at me and asking, “Hey, Buddy, what’ll it be?”
“They were serving a white wine outside on the deck. Do you have any more of that?”
“Sure do, if that’s what you want, but how about something a little stronger? Could I interest you in a martini or maybe a scotch and soda?”
I hesitate. It really isn’t a good idea to mix alcohol with my medications, but that first glass of wine seems to have done me a world of good. “Are martinis also included in the fare?”
“Yes, sir. Everything’s included and I feel obliged to tell you that I make a killer martini.”
“Well then, yes please. I’ll have one of your killer martinis. Hold the olive. I’m on a low salt diet.” The bartender doesn’t laugh, but I do. How did such a terrible day end so well? I sip my martini and look around. There are couples standing by the windows looking out at the lake and others talking intimately at some of the smaller tables. It’s an international crowd, people of all colors speaking a multitude of languages.
There’s a brief lull in the chatter and I can make out the tune playing in the background, an old favorite, “It’s Only a Paper Moon.” Funny, how the greats never go out of fashion. If only Bessie were here with me now. How she’d have loved this little adventure.
“Excuse me, do you have a light?” A fellow who looks about my son’s age is holding up a package of Lucky Strikes. I’m surprised to hear a West London accent. Before I can answer, the bartender hands him a small book of matches. I watch as he taps a cigarette from the pack, puts it between his lips and lights up. “Want one?” he asks, holding out the package.
I haven’t smoked in years, but I take a cigarette from the pack. He hands me the matches and I’m amazed by how steady my hands are as I strike one against the box. The almost forgotten taste of tobacco brings back memories of smoky bars in London, tavernas in Athens, and night clubs in Toronto. For once, I’m glad Bessie isn’t beside me glaring her disapproval. “Thanks.” I blow out a satisfying cloud of smoke and rest my back against the bar. “I’m really enjoying this little trip. Everything’s first class all the way.”
“Yes,” he agrees. “Except we’re in tourist class. Makes you wonder what they’ve got going on upstairs.”
“I’m quite happy where I am. Who would have expected free liquor?”
“To free liquor,” he agrees, and we clink glasses.
“Nice to find a fellow Brit aboard,” I say.
“Indeed,” he replies. “To the queen.”
“To the queen,” I respond, and we clink glasses again.
“Who’d have expected so many Yanks on this ship? I’m from London myself, first time I’ve ever ventured this far afield. You?”
“Oh, I’m originally from a small town just north of Leeds, but I haven’t been back in years. After university I traveled a bit, mostly the Greek islands and Crete. I was in the Navy during the war, and then I sort of wound up in Canada.”
The man has kind eyes and an amused expression, and I’m delighted to have found such congenial company. I stick out my hand. “Jacob Kantor.”
“Charles Dawson,” he says in return.
“Really?” I can’t control a little laugh. “Any relation to the Charles Dawson?”
“I am the Charles Dawson, now that my dad’s gone, but no relation to the Piltdown Man, if that’s what you’re getting at.” He takes a sip of his drink and waits for my reply.
“It’s probably just as well, that Charles Dawson, the one who claimed to have discovered Piltdown Man, turned out to be something of a scoundrel.”
“Don’t I know it. Thanks to him, I was known as The Missing Link back in grammar school, but most people don’t make the connection these days. What are you, some sort of anthropology buff?”
“Archaeology, actually, late Bronze Age for what it’s worth.”
“Really, what a coincidence.” He perks up at once, scrutinizing me with renewed interest. “I teach comparative philology at the University of London, Sumero-Akkadian and Elamite cuneiform primarily. Where do you work?”
“Well”—and here I sigh realizing how long it’s been—“I spent most of my career at the University of Toronto, but I retired some time ago.”
Mr. Dawson signals the bartender, waving an empty glass in his direction. “Retired at your age? Must be nice. They’ll have me chained to my desk another fifteen years.”
At my age? Does he think he’s flattering me? I’m old enough to be his father. “Time’s a funny thing,” I say. “You’ll be amazed how fast the years fly by.”
We exchange wan smiles and then go silent. Strains of Nat King Cole’s “Unforgettable” rise above the din, awakening memories that turn my jovial mood into such sloppy nostalgia that I’m afraid I’ll embarrass myself by springing a leak and weeping into my drink. I take a last, long swig of my martini and say, “Nice meeting you, Mr. Dawson, but I’m afraid I’ve got to get going.”
“Wife keeps you on a short leash, does she? I remember how that was.”
“No, nothing like that.” Then, for some reason I tell this total stranger about Bessie. “My wife died eight years ago. Remarkable woman, kind, brilliant, funny, they don’t make them like that anymore. I’ve been on my own since then.”
“It’s only been four years for me. I still haven’t adjusted.” There was an awkward silence while I try to think of something to say that won’t make the conversation more maudlin. Since nothing comes to me, I nod and am about to leave when he says, “What do you say we meet for supper later, a couple widowers on their own? You can bring me up to date on the Bronze Age.”
“Supper? I’m sure we’ll be back before supper.”
“Back? Back where?” He laughs and pats me on the back. “As far as I know we’re only going forward. How about sandwiches at the Sea Breeze Café, much less stuffy than the dining room. Let’s say seven o’clock?”
“Yes, fine, seven o’clock. See you then.” I set my glass on the bar and leave Charles Dawson and Nat King Cole behind as I make my way out of the lounge, down the hallway, and out onto an upper deck. There’s a good wind blowing, and I hang onto the rail for balance as a fine mist wafts against my face. Squint as I may, there’s no land anywhere in sight and I swear I smell the sea.
I remove my glasses in the hope that cleaning dust and oily fingerprints from the lenses will make the shoreline reappear. To my surprise, everything comes into focus the moment the specs are off my face. Blinking and rubbing my eyes in disbelief I rotate slowly, taking in details I haven’t seen in years: the grain of the wood deck, the slats in the lounge chairs, and the hairy texture of the ropes supporting the lifeboats above my head. I turn back to the rail and gaze out at the water where individual waves peak and break, leaving a trail of frothy foam in their wake. I could count the bubbles if I had the time. Clouds are no longer whitish blotches in the sky, but architectural wonders with heft, dimension, and details I’d almost forgotten. Gaping, infatuated with the floating palaces in the sky, I take out my handkerchief, clean my glasses then put them back on. Immediately, the world’s a fog again. I take them off and everything’s crystal clear. I put them back on and it’s a blur. Strange, very strange. Did that fall jog something back into place? Did a good knock on the noggin correct my vision like when we used to pound on our old Philco to bring the picture into focus? I wrap my glasses in my handkerchief and put them in my pocket. Staring into the distance, as far as my new vision will allow, all I see is water, endless water in all directions. We’re very far from shore, perhaps halfway to Rochester. If this boat’s some sort of ferry to the US they should have warned me. I would have brought my passport.
I go back inside where I find a small library on the main deck and spend an hour happily perusing old novels and ancient magazines, finally settling on a National Geographic. What a joy to be able to read everything, even the captions in small print, without a struggle. By the time I look up it’s time to find the Sea Breeze Cafe.
The informal eatery is a large open room with white wicker furniture on blue carpeting with cheesy nautical decorations: an anchor, a life buoy, even a stuffed swordfish, but real candles flicker on each table and the entire back wall opens to additional seating on the deck. I stop at the maître d’s station and inquire whether a Mr. Dawson has been seated yet.
“Oh yes,” he says, and motions for a young man dressed like an extra in The Pirates of Penzance to show me to my table.
Dawson has changed into a dress shirt and navy sport coat, making me feel a bit grubby and underdressed. “Sorry, but I’m afraid this is all I have with me.”
“Oh, you’re fine, fine. Jackets aren’t required out here on deck.”
That may be true, but I notice that most of the other passengers have dressed for the evening. There’s nothing to be done. I certainly didn’t board with dress clothes, so I remove my hat, take a seat, and try to look more comfortable than I feel.
“So, how are you enjoying the cruise so far?” Dawson asks.
“To be honest, it’s taken me quite by surprise. I didn’t realize the ship was this large and luxurious.”
“Yes, they’ve done a magnificent job restoring her, haven’t they? Of course, I’ve never sailed before so I have nothing to compare her to. You’re the traveler so you’re the better judge.”
“Oh, I’ve seen a bit of the world, but I’m no expert. I certainly don’t have much experience with this sort of thing.” I gesture broadly, indicating the entire ship. “As a kid we had a little putt-putt, but that’s something else entirely, and you don’t want to hear about life aboard a battleship.” The waiter comes by with menus and a basket of warm rolls. I take one, tear off a large piece, and slather it with butter. “I’m afraid battleships are a bit short on the amenities. This definitely beats a battleship.”
“I don’t doubt it. Where were stationed during the war?”
“Greece. The Navy thought I spoke Greek because I could read Aeschylus.” We laugh at this common misconception. “Imagine trying to get around modern Athens speaking Attic Greek. Believe me, it can’t be done, I’ve tried it. When I was a student at the British School long before the war, I got lost on my way to some restaurant. The city is a labyrinth, and I was completely turned around when a local gentleman rode by on a bicycle. I flagged him down and asked directions in my best classical Greek. He listened politely, handed me an orange, and rode off.”
Mr. Dawson is looking at me expectantly, apparently hoping there’s more to the story, so I rummage through a few old memories and come up with something I hope he’ll find amusing.
“The Navy was very keen on recruiting young archaeologists for intelligence work because we were supposed to be Cracker Jack cryptologists. They put my wife to work deciphering code at Bletchley Park and sent me off on the HMS Kipling. I was presumably an intelligence operative, but my mission was so secret that they never even told me what it was. I spent the entire war waiting for an assignment that never came.”
“So, you spent the whole war with your feet up waiting for the phone to ring. You’re one lucky bloke.”
“Oh no, you’ve got it all wrong. Without an assignment I was just another poor schmuck in the line of fire. But, in one sense, you’re right about being lucky. The Kipling was off duty for repairs when the Germans sank our sister ships. The Kashmir and Kelly both went down. It was an awful thing. We fished Lord Mountbatten and what crew we could out of the Sea of Crete, but of course, we couldn’t rescue everyone. There were a lot of casualties.” I put down my buttered roll and turned toward the water where the waves were beginning to roil. It looked as though a storm might be brewing. “That was a cruise from Hell. I can tell you that. Do you think it’s going to rain?”
Dawson followed my gaze toward the gray clouds massing ominously where there had been blue skies only moments before. “Odd how these storms come up out of nowhere. Do you want to go back inside?”
“No, let’s sit here another few minutes. There’s something romantic about being out on deck in a storm.” I pick up my menu and marvel at how crisp and clear the print appears. It’s been years since I’ve been able to read without my glasses. “I think I’ll have The Landlubber’s Plate. What about you?”
I notice a young man sitting by himself studying an impressive looking tome. He has a stack of books piled on his table, two more open in front of him and a spiral notebook where he jots down frequent notes. Odd that he’s working so hard on a pleasure cruise.
A sudden rush of wind sends menus and napkins sailing in all directions. We all jump from our seats, grab our belongings, and run for cover as the first hard drops of rain pelt us with unexpected force. As I pass the young man’s table, I see he’s forgotten one of his books. I snatch it up to save it from the rain and hurry back inside with the rest of the passengers. Dawson and I stand panting by the bar grinning foolishly at one another. “Well, that was a surprise.”
“Yes,” Dawson agrees. “Not very romantic, I’m afraid. Let’s see if we can get a table inside.”
While Dawson goes off in search of a table, I flip through the book I’ve just rescued: Textbook of Physiology, by Zoethout and Tuttle. The owner’s name is penned neatly on the inside cover: Samuel Rabinowitz. So, the young man’s a medical student. The name makes me smile. Samuel Rabinowitz I say to myself with a surge of atavistic pride as I look around the room for an industrious Jewish boy who’s studying to be a doctor. My search is interrupted by a resonant, male voice broadcast over the ship’s speaker system.
This is your captain speaking, wishing you all an enjoyable journey and a pleasant evening aboard Quantum Lines Aqua Meridian. I’m pleased to report that, despite the wind, we remain on course and will continue sailing through the Fabulous Fifties. Please be advised that the Fair Seas Aqua Quintet has been moved from the upper deck to the Grand Foyer due to rain, but the Sock Hop will go on as planned, so put on your dancing shoes and prepare to rock around the clock tonight. Oh, and a word for those with queasy tummies, Dramamine is always available in the ship’s dispensary.
Dawson comes back and taps me on the shoulder. When I look up, he points to a small table on the far side of the room, and I follow him to our new seats. The ship is beginning to roll but I keep my balance like an old sailor. I square my shoulders and swagger a bit as we cross the dining room. This trip is making a new man of me. I can feel The Bayside Manor receding further and further into the distance. Our new table is tucked into a cozy corner out of the rain, but with a clear view of the water. A basket of fresh rolls has already appeared and my appetite is picking up.
“A young man forgot this, a medical student. I’ll have to find him later,” I remark as I put Samuel Rabinowitz’s textbook under my chair.
“How will you find him?” Dawson asks.
“He wrote his name inside the front cover.”
“Well then, one of the stewards can give you his cabin number. By the way, how do you like your cabin? Mine’s clean enough and the bed’s good, but it’s so small I can practically touch both walls at the same time.”
I don’t know how to respond. In fact, the question makes me feel more than a little uneasy.
Dawson must see the chagrin on my face because he intuits the problem at once. “If they haven’t assigned your cabin yet, we’ll just go down to the service desk and they’ll sort it out for you. We’ll go together right after supper.”
“Thank you. I’d appreciate a little moral support.” I struggle to ask the next question nonchalantly, so he won’t guess the depth of my confusion. “So, just how much longer is this voyage expected to last?”
He looks at me oddly. “Well, there’s no land in sight, so I expect we still have a way to go.”
Alright. We must be crossing over to the US, but how long can that take? In any case, they might have warned me. I keep those thoughts to myself. “Quite true, I’d better see someone about getting a room.”
Once I’ve finished my hamburger and enough chips to give my doctor a heart attack, and Dawson has polished off a second slice of pie because, well why not, it’s all included, we head down to deck one to see about my cabin.
I’m not the only passenger with questions. There’s a small queue ahead of me, but the woman at the service desk is personable and efficient and I’m standing in front of her, ticket in hand, within minutes.
“Good evening. What seems to be the problem?” She smiles at me warmly and I relax at once.
“It seems I never checked in properly. This was all rather last minute, and I just went straight up to the lounge without realizing . . .”
“That’s not a problem. Are you traveling alone or with your wife?”
“Alone.”
She perks up as though this is good news and flashes me that smile again. “Excellent, let’s take a look at your ticket.”
“Apparently, I’m supposed to be assigned a cabin. I hope it’s not too late.” I smile back and notice that she’s fussing with her hair and leaning forward just enough to give me a quick glimpse of her cleavage. Heavens, is the woman flirting with me?
“Oh no, sir, it’s never too late. We can’t have our guests sleeping in the lounges, can we?” She studies my ticket for a moment then looks through a large, handwritten ledger. “You’ve already been assigned a cabin, number 1948 on deck two. It’s tourist class, not designed for long-term stays, but I think you’ll find it quite comfortable.” She takes a metal key off a board and hands it to me. “Will you need a porter to help with your luggage?”
“As I said, this trip wasn’t exactly planned. I was offered a ticket at the last moment and here I am, sans luggage.” I shrug apologetically. “Maybe there’s somewhere on the ship where I can purchase a few things.”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary. We’re accustomed to guests arriving unexpectedly. Housekeeping will see you have everything you need. They’re very good about that. Here you go. Take the main elevator off the lobby.”
Dawson pats me on the back as we head toward the elevator. “See, no problem at all. Why don’t you get settled then look for me in the smoking lounge?”
“Well, that’s a relief. I was afraid you were going to invite me to the sock hop.”
Dawson’s eyes crinkle and the corners of his mouth twitch. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t participate much in the theme-night parties. You’ll find me sitting with a couple Americans. Do you play bridge?”
“I used to, but it’s been years. I’m beyond rusty.”
“No matter, we’ll get you back up to speed. They don’t know Acol, so we play Standard, are you comfortable with that?”
“I’ll give it a go, but as I said, it’s been years.”
“It’s just a friendly game, nothing at stake. It will all come back to you.” As he exits the elevator I hear strains of “You Make Me Feel So Young” emanating from the lounge.