Detente on the Seas
Location: the Pacific Ocean,
more or less near the Equator
January 21
Today was my third day of going patchless. That must
mean that I've gotten my sea legs.
The ongoing controversy was over the total silence
of the Russian First Officer, affectionately (and
quietly) referred to as "Giggles." He ate at least two
meals a day with the passengers but barely ever spoke.
Fred, who sat next to Giggles, had tried talking to
him with no success, and had even tried changing
places with me. I'd had no success with the young man
either. Even worse, he had practically swallowed his
meal whole and ran from the room when I sat down next
to him. I suggested to Roland that Giggles knew very
little English, and Roland agreed to get one of the
other crew members to teach him some Russian.
It was Jo's 60th birthday, and the cook had made her
a cake. Roland had learned some Russian, and he asked
me to say it at breakfast, but he told me it meant "do
you handsome Russian men like blondes? I am a blonde."
The night was clear, and with no light source save
the ship and the stars, Venus reflected on the waves.
January 22
When Giggles came to breakfast, I greeted him with a
competent "dobro yeah utro"-- good morning in Russian.
He laughed and said "dobro" back. Success! He hung
around longer than usual, and as he left, addressed
the room.
"Good night!"
The whole incident seemed to support my
language-barrier theory rather well. But he could have
just been flustered.
We had passed the equator in the night, and the
attitude of the Russians had changed instantaneously.
They had been quiet and surly, but now they stripped
down to their bikini briefs and became goofy, chatty,
normal, young men. The second officer did pull-ups to
impress Roland and I. Giggles lay almost naked on the
steps, eyes closed, basking in the sun like a furless
sea lion. I almost stepped on him, and beat a hasty
retreat, wondering if it would be proper to photograph
nearly naked Russian seamen without their consent. An
albatross adopted our boat, flying around and around.
As usual, the Sri Lankan crew members wore their
orange jumpsuits, white schmattes, and continued to
work. The tiny swimming pool was filled, and I sat in
the bow chatting with the Chief Engineer.
View from my window
"Have you ever encountered pirates?" I asked the
Chief. Pirates were the flavor of the month back home,
as they had gotten press in some magazines and in the
New York Times.
"Yes, but not on this ship." He continued on to
explain that the pirates don't actually show their
faces. They sneak alongside in a small boat at night,
and when everyone is asleep, they rob the containers.
The pilot up in the Bridge doesn't spot them until the
boat is speeding away.
"But what if you catch the pirates?" I asked.
"I don't know," said the Chief, very seriously.
After dinner that night, I decided to forego my
customary loss at cards and watch "The Perfect Storm"
instead. My cabin had no VCR so I barged into the
Officers Rec Room, surprising the astonished second
officer who wasn't quite sure what to do with me. He
motioned to go ahead and put in the video, and the
other officers came in. Most of them saw me, looked
surprised, and left, but Giggles and the Second
Engineer came in. They'd knew I didn't bite.
I fast forwarded over the plot. I'd read the book and
seemed to be the only person on Earth who found it a
tough read. I was there to see the storm. It started
dramatically, with a container ship like our own
losing containers to the sea. The seamen watched my
reaction. I gave them a frightened whimper - it was
what they wanted.
A minute later they were laughing and pointing - the
Andrea Gale was rocking in the gigantic waves, but the
food and coffee cups stayed glued to the tables.
Later, after watching Hollywood overdramatize the
last moments of some dying men, I chatted with my
Russian pals.
"What do you guys do for fun on this ship?" I asked.
"That is a very good question," said Giggles in his
halting, brusque English. They had no answer.
They explained to me that they all worked in
six-month increments, and all the Russians came from
the same maritime academy in St. Petersburg. The
second officer invited me to the Bridge during his
watch.
I asked them what they did on their shore leave in
Long Beach. They had taken the subway from Long Beach
to Los Angeles, where they'd gone to Universal
Studios. They told me a joke about a Russian who went
to America. He'd returned home and said, "in America,
they use the same currency we do, but instead of
calling it bucks, they call it dollars." I learned
that the name "Brighton Beach" always makes them
laugh.
The Chief Engineer stopped by to tell me about a
movie that he'd just been watching with the Captain.
"It reminds us very much of you. It is called Coyote
Ugly."
I had to admit that the real Coyote Ugly Saloon was
about four blocks from my home in New York, but I
can't imagine what about that movie reminded them of
me.
January 23
Evgeny at work
I visited the second officer on the Bridge. His name
was Evgeny, not Boris, but Giggles name was, in fact,
not Giggles but Boris. I stifled my own giggle.
The Direct Kiwi was traveling at around 20 mph, which
is apparently good, although to me it seems
excruciatingly slow. Evgeny showed me weather charts
and navigation charts, and I sort of understood after
he explained how they worked. He told me that the
Russians all hoped to hang onto their jobs, because
they are very good jobs.
At dinner, I asked the Captain why the crew was all
Russian and Sri Lankan.
"Europeans don't want the jobs," he explained. "But
in Russia, where the average monthly income is $30 a
month, this is a very good job. And in Sri Lanka, the
average monthly income is $50-80 a month. The crew
goes home with a few thousand dollars at the end of a
contract."
I finally won a card game, but it was a low payoff
one. I could quit teasing the second engineer for a
loan, and pay my own way for the next two nights.
Nightly card game
I went out on deck to watch the stars and the added
attraction of heat lightning. I'd made the leap from
frenzied New Yorker to relaxed traveler easily enough.
But as a freelance artist in a fringe, cultish
industry, living in a bohemian Manhattan neighborhood,
I barely operated in normal society anyway. It wasn't
such a large leap to take. And I was making friends,
but not the kind you keep. Just the transient kind.
Never alone, but always alone. My self-imposed fate
for the coming year. I was too philosophical tonight.
It was time for bed.
January 24
After being beaten for the fifteenth time in
ping-pong, I left Roland and went up to the Bridge. I
asked Evgeny to teach me to say "crazy chicken" in
Russian, and proceeded to get mileage out of it for
the rest of the day. Only the Californians truly
understood "El Pollo Loco," which is the name of a
fast food chain in the western US, but the Russians
saw humor in it too. Seems "crazy chicken" is funny in
any language.
Over dinner I was introduced the world of senior
jokes. One went like this.
A group of senior women are hanging out. One woman
says, "I'm getting married again." The others say,
"that's wonderful. Is he handsome?"
"No," says the woman. "My first husband was better
looking."
"Well then, is he rich?"
"No, I have more money than he does."
"Is he good in bed?"
"He's all right. Nothing special."
"Then why are you marrying him?"
"Because he drives at night!"
(Seniors howl with laughter.)
I also asked the Captain if they ever had stowaways.
He explained to me that it does sometimes happen,
especially in very poor countries. The stowaways hide
in the containers, and if caught, the ship owner must
pay to have them repatriated. There are also a lot of
laws about the treatment of stowaways, who must be fed
and well cared for.
I finally won the card game of "Screw Your Neighbor."
The mega-jackpot was $2.40. I won fair and square, but
was brought soundly back to earth a few hours later
when the Russians tried to teach me a card game and I
couldn't understand the rules. It might have been a
language problem, as the boys kept telling me to
"attack with a six of cubes, but the heart is the
powerful card." They warned me to not go around saying
"crazy chicken" in Russia.
January 25
It had started raining in the night, and the entire
ship was coated in drizzle. Roland had given me a
project: to find out how to say "deodorant" in
Russian. Our crew was healthy-smelling, and they
worked hard. But I wouldn't have the nerve to ask. I'd
have to learn "invisible pig" instead, in honor of my
trip mascot.
Unfortunately, I was not capable of glibly rolling
"nevedemaya svinka" off the tip of my tongue.
"Invisible pig" was not the success that "crazy
chicken" had been. I sat up late with Oleg, the
26-year-old second engineer, explaining my invisible
pig, el pollo loco, and comparing life in St.
Petersburg with life in New York.
Officers at work
Oleg, somewhat of a prodigy, had worked hard and been
promoted to second engineer in a short amount of time.
He wanted the same things that American 26-year-olds
want. He was saving to buy a flat in St. Petersburg,
and he wanted a powerful, new computer. He knows that
Russian salaries "are shit," and that is why he and
the others can stand to be at sea for six months at a
time.
"Sometimes I lay awake at night and ask myself, what
have I done today? And it is nothing," he explained.
"But I have chosen this life, and it is only for maybe
five years more."
He explained to me that for people his age, the new
Russia is much better than the old Soviet Union. His
parents, like others their age, have very little to
show for their years of teaching and factory work.
They live in a small apartment on the coast. But he,
and others his age, have the opportunity for much
better lives. Still, life was hard in Russia and he
had considered emigrating but wasn't sure where to go.
As a sailor, he had been all over the world, but often
his shore leave was only six hours. He would spend
that buying supplies.
"I have been everywhere, but I have been nowhere," he
explained.
January 26
I brought a pack of Famous Amos Chocolate Chip
Cookies to the nightly card game. The other passengers
went to their cabins, and I stayed to watch the fate
of the leftovers.
A certain furry blue Sesame Street character made an
unexpected appearance when the officers walked in.
"Cookies," they yelped, descending on them. This was
a real switch from the first time I went abroad, to
Finland in 1982. My Finnish friends had never heard of
chocolate chip cookies.
We watched "Coyote Ugly," a hopelessly silly
semi-sweet, semi-soft-porn love story about a naive
songwriter in tight pants, who inexplicably dazzles
hordes of drunken sailors by singing along with a
Blondie CD. One of the characters collected comics and
was obsessed with the first appearance of the Punisher
- that had reminded the Chief Engineer of me.
I continued my conversation with Oleg, now stuffed
with cookies.
"A ship is no place for a woman," he explained by way
of apology. One of the other officers had been a
little drunk and teased me more than usual, crossing
the line into inappropriate behavior. They had tried
to laugh it away by blaming it on his supposed
affiliation with the Chechyn mafia.
"But what if there were many women? And it was not
unusual? Then it wouldn't be a big deal," I argued,
even though a part of me traitorously agreed. People
tend to lose their minds when cooped up together for
months. I'd seen it on overland truck trips, where
passengers went a bit mad and did stuff they'd never
do normally.
"What if," I continued, "a woman was a better
engineer than you? Why could't she work with you?"
He laughed. "I have heard of emancipation in the US,
but Engineering is NO place for a woman. We get very
dirty. We get grease all over, and under our
fingernails."
Those were fighting words and I argued with him until
I was explaining internal combustion, four-stroke
engines, and manual chokes (faking it mostly, and
banking on the language barrier to cover me).
"Okay, okay! I am wrong. You are an independent
woman. YOU can work in the Engine Room."
He then asked me to explain the recent US
presidential election. I settled in for a long night.
January 27
The whole day disappeared, swallowed up by the
International Date Line.
January 28
We completely lost Saturday, which was a very lucky
thing because Sunday is pancake day. Pancakes were a
highlight on the "Direct Kiwi."
As passengers, our sea life was pretty slow. We ate,
we slept, we played cards. Every day I lost at
ping-pong to Roland, the oldest passenger on board.
Every day the Russians got braver and teased me a
little more.
Today's "tease Marie because she's the only female
under 60 we've seen in months" session involved a
dried fish. It's a snack, and four of the crewmen,
after a swim in the ship's small pool, were hanging
around drinking beer and eating dried fish. In tiny
bikini briefs. I found a lot of reasons to admire the
sky and ocean.
"Here, eat this. It is for you," they said.
"I can't. Allergy. Fish makes me sick."
A moment of Russian thought.
"Maybe dried fish doesn't make you sick."
"No thanks."
"Okay, then. I sign it, give it to you, you e-mail it."
Now it was just getting goofy. I tried to exit
gracefully, but the whole situation had just become
silly and everyone was laughing as I went back to my
cabin.
January 29
After breakfast, I was sitting in my cabin. Suddenly,
something changed. The low rumbling I'd heard for
thirteen days slowed to a faint background hum.
Nothing was rattling. What was wrong?
I went out on deck. I saw yachts, sailboats, and a
low mountain in the distance. We were in New Zealand,
and were about to get a day on dry land.
Tauranga
NEXT: the mundane becomes spectacular. An exciting
visit to the Tauranga post office, bank, and grocery
story.