Sea Change

In Port

We don’t have gills or flippers; we don’t have the innate ability to swim. My roommate and I are convinced the Gods will have their way with us. Will it be a giant squid (“10,000 Leagues Under the Sea”) or a freak tsunami (“Ghost Ship?”)? The stars are more and more vivid, and the ocean, placatory. My seasickness is on its last legs. I think about the pirates who once threw horses overboard to lighten the load. I stay up late thinking about these kinds of things. One can’t help it. I want to be a seafarer, not fearer.

I’m wrapped up in a certain, special flannel each night- it’s my comfort blanket. I wrote a message in a bottle. You should be expecting it any day now. My dreams are bizarre, but I think REM is off the hook.

Freud, my dream catcher

I wake up and- in preconscious thought- believe I’m in the trunk of a car. Our room is small, dim, and above the ship’s engine. It rattles my bed; a guy a few doors down made an off color joke about quarters and vibrations. I shrugged it off. He’s not getting any play. I fell asleep in class, later woken by the sensation of drool down my chin. I might rub my face in coffee grinds, in hopes of a) staying alert through osmosis and b) blending in with the pirates. And if it gets hot enough, I’ll boil coffee on my cheeks. Three birds, one shotgun.

I’ve been elected to the student council. The first amendment I propose is that the intercom system wakes the shipmates up with Brahms or Respighi every morning. Is that archaic? The majority want to hear Coldplay, and I don’t blame them. The 300 crewmates are seemingly from the Philippines or Jamaica. They all sing like birds. Maybe they can wake us up with their chirps. This fool plays the Counting Crows on his guitar all day. He has a large following, his flock of seagulls. Everyone here loves him. Everyone here also loves Michael Jackson. More birds to kill. I shared my box of Sweetheart candy with the Jamaican bartender. He’s never had the candy, but ensures me he’s had many sweethearts. Chuck has become a friend of mine.

Some Choice Jams

And as a disclaimer, I’ve befriended a couple of guys from the Dirty- Dirty. They don’t believe in Global Warming. I’ve been biting my tongue. I've been cornered. As much as I want to hate them, I can’t. They open doors for me and call me 'M'am'. They let me put- put their golf balls into drinking glasses. It’s quite the challenge on this teeter-totter ship. I tell them I don’t golf, I don't care for it but they don’t understand. Maybe I do hate them.

I watched a girl run on the treadmill. She held on for dear life. The ship should provide bungee cords, so we can strap ourselves in. That’s my second proposal: bungee cords.

I fiesta-siesta by the pool when I get a chance. The rims of my ginger ales taste like salt after 30 minutes. My nose is burnt red- but then again- my nose is always red. We are in the Tropic of Cancer, the air and the water, a nice 72 degrees. The word Tropic derives from the Latin word tropos or turn, according to my dictionary. Everything is transient. Nothing is stationary. “I could watch the waves all day. There is no change in shape, size, color or rhythm,” I was wrong. It really is a sea change.