information. To be honest, neither was I. Neither were half of the other passengers. They were too busy either chatting aimlessly or making
Titanic
jokes.
I knew Monk’s calm couldn’t last. In fact, I was concerned that it had lasted as long as it did. Finally, when the drill was over and we were heading back up to our cabins, I made the mistake of talking.
“You can take off the life vest,” I said gently.
Monk suddenly came to life. He grabbed at his vest with both hands as if I’d just threatened him. “Over my dead body,” he growled. “Over my dead, drowned, bloated body that little fish are going to nibble on the ocean floor where my bones will scatter and eventually become part of a coral reef.” A second later, he was taking the stairway two steps at a time, past his floor and my floor and on upward.
“Adrian, please.” I was chasing him and had a sinking feeling—no pun intended—of exactly where he was heading.
When I caught up, he was on the highest level—staff only—and had forced his way past two officers and onto the navigation bridge. “I need to get off,” he shouted. His manic voice echoed off the rows of shiny equipment. “It’s an emergency.”
The entire bridge snapped to a kind of mental attention. “What emergency, sir?” someone shouted back.
“I can’t live with my roommate.”
The captain was there at the wheel, front and center. To his credit, he didn’t laugh or yell or kick us out. Instead, he turned command over to his first officer, then led us into a small communications room next door.
Captain Sheffield was probably still in his forties, square-shouldered, with a military bearing. He was blessed with a high mane of wavy white hair, perfectly groomed, which he obviously considered his best feature.
“You know,” he told Monk, “you don’t have to keep wearing the vest.”
“I do if I want to avoid being a coral reef.” Monk had strapped it on so tight that it was starting to affect his breathing. “I need to get off.”
“You should have been here half an hour ago,” said the captain. “That’s when the port pilot went back with his boat.”
“What about turning around and dropping me off?” Monk suggested. “Like a do-over.”
The captain explained that this couldn’t be done, and even if it could, the port of San Francisco would require another docking fee and pilot fee, which couldn’t be authorized because of a simple roommate problem.
Monk’s other suggestions for evacuation were also rejected. The ship did not have a helicopter. We wouldn’t be allowed to commandeer a lifeboat. And, although Monk had learned how to swim years ago from a correspondence course, he wasn’t very good at it.
Our next approach was to go back down to level four and try to reason with Darby McGinnis, Monk’s new roommate. I checked my watch as we walked. Monk’s first little catastrophe had caused me to miss the B. to Sea orientation meeting, and I was in danger now of missing the captain’s welcome cocktail party.
Back in Monk’s cabin, Darby McGinnis seemed to be a genial, easygoing guy. Instantly, I figured he and Monk wouldn’t get along. At the end of their twenty-minute discussion, Darby had—very unreasonably—refused to bunk in the morgue. He’d also refused to swim to shore, since he couldn’t swim either and claimed to get panicky even in a bathtub. Why do people like this go on cruises? I don’t know.
Darby also refused to sleep in the hall and refused Monk’s idea of sharing a room with me on level five. Actually, I’m the one who refused that. But Darby agreed that we would need to at least have a drink first. Everything with Darby seemed to require a drink first.
It wasn’t much later, when we were alone again, that Monk made his final plea. “How about you and Malcolm Leeds?” he asked. “I know Malcolm’s here. The two of you can shack up in his room and I can have yours.”
“We are not shacking up,” I said
Titanic
jokes.
I knew Monk’s calm couldn’t last. In fact, I was concerned that it had lasted as long as it did. Finally, when the drill was over and we were heading back up to our cabins, I made the mistake of talking.
“You can take off the life vest,” I said gently.
Monk suddenly came to life. He grabbed at his vest with both hands as if I’d just threatened him. “Over my dead body,” he growled. “Over my dead, drowned, bloated body that little fish are going to nibble on the ocean floor where my bones will scatter and eventually become part of a coral reef.” A second later, he was taking the stairway two steps at a time, past his floor and my floor and on upward.
“Adrian, please.” I was chasing him and had a sinking feeling—no pun intended—of exactly where he was heading.
When I caught up, he was on the highest level—staff only—and had forced his way past two officers and onto the navigation bridge. “I need to get off,” he shouted. His manic voice echoed off the rows of shiny equipment. “It’s an emergency.”
The entire bridge snapped to a kind of mental attention. “What emergency, sir?” someone shouted back.
“I can’t live with my roommate.”
The captain was there at the wheel, front and center. To his credit, he didn’t laugh or yell or kick us out. Instead, he turned command over to his first officer, then led us into a small communications room next door.
Captain Sheffield was probably still in his forties, square-shouldered, with a military bearing. He was blessed with a high mane of wavy white hair, perfectly groomed, which he obviously considered his best feature.
“You know,” he told Monk, “you don’t have to keep wearing the vest.”
“I do if I want to avoid being a coral reef.” Monk had strapped it on so tight that it was starting to affect his breathing. “I need to get off.”
“You should have been here half an hour ago,” said the captain. “That’s when the port pilot went back with his boat.”
“What about turning around and dropping me off?” Monk suggested. “Like a do-over.”
The captain explained that this couldn’t be done, and even if it could, the port of San Francisco would require another docking fee and pilot fee, which couldn’t be authorized because of a simple roommate problem.
Monk’s other suggestions for evacuation were also rejected. The ship did not have a helicopter. We wouldn’t be allowed to commandeer a lifeboat. And, although Monk had learned how to swim years ago from a correspondence course, he wasn’t very good at it.
Our next approach was to go back down to level four and try to reason with Darby McGinnis, Monk’s new roommate. I checked my watch as we walked. Monk’s first little catastrophe had caused me to miss the B. to Sea orientation meeting, and I was in danger now of missing the captain’s welcome cocktail party.
Back in Monk’s cabin, Darby McGinnis seemed to be a genial, easygoing guy. Instantly, I figured he and Monk wouldn’t get along. At the end of their twenty-minute discussion, Darby had—very unreasonably—refused to bunk in the morgue. He’d also refused to swim to shore, since he couldn’t swim either and claimed to get panicky even in a bathtub. Why do people like this go on cruises? I don’t know.
Darby also refused to sleep in the hall and refused Monk’s idea of sharing a room with me on level five. Actually, I’m the one who refused that. But Darby agreed that we would need to at least have a drink first. Everything with Darby seemed to require a drink first.
It wasn’t much later, when we were alone again, that Monk made his final plea. “How about you and Malcolm Leeds?” he asked. “I know Malcolm’s here. The two of you can shack up in his room and I can have yours.”
“We are not shacking up,” I said
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