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 Means to an End --- Chapter 01
by Nathaniel Perkins
We are two days out of New York Harbor and my stomach has finally settled enough to write. The steward on level two assured me that in forty eight hours time I would either push through the foul purgatory of misery that inflicts most land bound folk or else commit the remainder of my voyage to an endless litany of heaves for every heaving and the walking stupor of the inflicted. I can see them now, at odd hours of the night, clarity sparking in their eyes only when they feel the impending doom of another bout of the railing retches. Two days on which I would rather not dwell, nor remember too closely. For myself, starting my journal of the voyage from this point will suffice, as no one in their right mind would care for a recounting of a poor meal experienced once in each direction.
I write ‘we’, as holds true for the collective group of souls making our crossing from New York to London. This being my first time to sea, I feel the need to capture every nuance of the journey. And so, ‘We’, are the passengers, and crew I suppose, of the luxury ship Centurion. There are a fair few of us aboard; the steward Jensen can give me an accurate account. But enough of such droll items.
Dinner, for those that are not afflicted with the curse of the swelling sea, occurs in the midships commissary. It is a grand room ringed about with red trimmings and draperies. The tables are hard wood and draped with vibrant white linens. They are circular which gives the diner a chance to engage each of his companions for that meal in turn. Apparently seats are catch as catch can for I have now sat twice for dinner – the first night before we were fully underway and my misery began – and now this evening without either time sharing a table with the same folk. Certainly I was not given an assignment to a particular table, however, I find that I enjoy staying in one location, it lets the rest of my companions mill about me in random patterns and provides a new set of conversationalists each meal. I will have to drift about myself if folk seem to settle in their ways. This seems an active, and gossiping bunch, so I wonder if it will come to that.
Dinner itself is remarkable only in that has stayed put - once well placed where it belongs. The room is equipped at one end with a box that plays records. Markus, the banker who is at our table makes a few requests of the man charged with operating the contraption. The third song comes up the same as the second, which causes a small bit of commotion. Markus calls a steward over to the table.
"Your man played this one already," he says to the man. "Tell him to put in the jazz number I requested."
What follows is passing strange. I know that the steward and the man in charge of the box have a conversation. The muted and strained subtle gesticulations makes it obvious that the man has attempted to fill Markus’s requests. That second song keeps playing every time the man starts up his little box. I hear the first few lines enough to write them here:
"Somewhere, beyond the sea, that’s where I’ll be…"
I confess I have not heard the tune before, yet I find it compelling. A poignant reminder that I am on an adventure, a new voyage – for me anyway. Yet the box still plays it. Minutes pass with no music and only the clinking of plates and silver and the burbling brook of human conversation before that longing bass line begins anew and those words drift on faint breeze throughout the commissary.
"Do you suppose the thing is broken", asks Thomas, a young businessman to my right. He continues in conspiratorial tones, "Or do you think he is putting us on?"
"I was not rude, if that is what you are thinking," Markus states. "It was a simple request. I did not mean to offend him…if I even did. Do you think he is? Putting us on, I mean."
The banker is flickering between embarrassment at causing a scene and indignation at being the butt of a prank. About fifteen minutes pass in idle conversation with no attempt at music. It is the sort of conversation that you cannot recall to mind, so devoid is it of substance. Perhaps I shall avoid bankers and young businessmen at future meals.
"Somewhere, beyond the sea, that’s where I’ll be…"
The sound snaps off as quickly as it begins. Just in time to be met with a variety of growls, exasperated sighs, and nervous laughter. An elderly couple the next table over stage a retreat. I use the momentum of their departure to push myself back from the table. A few conscientious greetings of pleasant evenings and well met and all that, with accompanying hand waves and minute head nods find me away from the table and headed towards my cabin.
My path out of the commissary takes me close enough to the poor man and his music machine that I venture a look for myself. It is a heavy blockish contraption in a cabinet with locking wheels. Through the glass top I can see a bank of slim black records and a host of sliders, mechanical arms, and connectors. The box stands several feet high, which makes me believe the music device itself is hidden within the center area. The man is standing next to the box, speaking in low tones to a crewman with a belt of small tools lying on the deck next to him. What I overhear chills my blood and causes the small hairs on the back of my neck to lift.
"I am telling you Hank, that record is not even in there anymore, it is right here and the damn thing is still playing it. How the hell is it still playing the damn song if the damn thing is right here?"
He notices me looking while I pass slowly and ends his justifiable tirade. The crew aboard the Centurion is especially careful with regard to banter, complaints, and technical issues around passengers. It is understandable considering the minor commotion that plays out as I set myself to write this letter.
Dinner complete, and myself retired to my cabin, I am prepared to close out the night with a spot of writing by what light I can muster. I have just finished a page when there is a brief shudder from the starboard side of the ship and the lights dim as if I am near a campfire and someone stands just to the side so that a portion of the firelight is blocked. After another moment or two there is a similar shudder from the port side.
In the hallway, one of my fellow level two guests is unleashing a barrage of questions at the steward - to no avail. The steward has no answers but the passenger is determined to make himself known to be a useful individual in a crisis. To hear him speak, he knows the ship inside and out as if he had designed the thing himself when I know him to be a cheese maker with a penchant for books with fancy titles and little content.
I wander aft and down levels trying to find someone who can tell me what is going on. There are some passengers about, but not many. The shudder and the dimming could have been missed or given over to the typical happenings of a vessel this size. Having never been aboard such a craft, I have no knowledge of it, but my mind needs the solace of a sailor’s reassurances.
Dropping down a few levels takes one quickly from the higher class passenger areas to the lower, steerage, and crew areas. I hail a shipman who does not look particularly intent on moving from point A to point B, unlike several other gruff or harried looking crew passed en route.
"Hello. This is my first time aboard such a ship," I had worked out what I wanted to say while moving through minuscule metal doorways and dropping down ladders. "Was that shudder normal? And why did the lights dim?"
"Don’t worry about a thing, sir," the crewman assurs me. "We haven’t hit anything, if that is what you are afraid of. Nothing to be alarmed over."
The thought of hitting something has not even crossed my mind. It gives me pause for a second, and in that time the crewman smiles and hurries off.
I return to my room and finish more of my journal.
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