Cargo

CARGO

Jack Sender

Cargo

Copyright 2015 Jack Sender

All Rights Reserved

Smashwords Edition

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Cover Design by Euan Wever

Table of Contents

Dedication

Prologue

The Proposition

Consideration

Preparation

Holland

Isadora

It's Not My Fault

Exploring Our Space

May Day

Underway

Second Day At Sea

Third Day At Sea

Fourth Day At Sea

Fifth Day At Sea

Sixth Day At Sea

Seventh Day At Sea

Eighth Day At Sea

Ninth Day At Sea

Tenth Day At Sea

Eleventh Day At Sea

Twelfth Day At Sea

Thirteenth Day At Sea

Final Entry From The Isadora

About The Author

To Captain Zdzichu Iwanowski

First Officer Rafal Wisnieki

and Chief Engineer Jan Hofman

Prologue

Beating wind vibrated our windows. Heavy, thunder and rain pounded through the night. Sometime after dawn it passed. Later, when looking down from our apartment window, the motion of water moving to the street drain caught my eye. One look and the rippling current from the overnight downpour began pulling, luring me deeper until, enveloped in the memory of when we rode the storm at sea, I could see it all again.

The war room was the command center, a large space located forward, one deck below the main bridge on a 600 foot light-cruiser. With no war raging off the coast of California the space was the coffee room and a gathering place. Every few minutes, weather guys in their Navy dungarees and light blue cotton shirts were passing through, in and out, carrying papers to the weather center. Large maps hung in various places and we could watch images on several active radar units that were tracking our storm…a big one.

I heard Stan, a young Swede from Minnesota, walk by saying that it was just ahead. He motioned forward with his chin, shook his head, held up the papers, said it had just been upgraded to a full-blown typhoon.

We were two days out of San Diego and from the admiral’s bridge we watched the ocean swells grow from moderate to massive. Waves were crashing across the bow, making the ship stagger. The sailors were starting to bump into things and slop their coffee. The ship was locked down for heavy weather.

If the ship were wood I’d worry about it getting smashed to kindling. Even a couple of the old timers were leery about the weather, talking about the lousy ride in store. They were sitting down more. Everyone was hanging on to things bolted down.

I hadn't read many news stories about Navy ships sinking in storms. The ship was government property with responsible people in charge so, unpleasant as it was, I figured we’d be all right.

Those of us who worked in this part of the ship were permitted access to the war room. There was a coffee pot, table and chairs. The space connected to the admiral’s bridge, a wide, curved corridor with rails front and back to hang on to, and an unobstructed view ahead to the turmoil.

I was a journalist on the staff of Vice Admiral Bernard Roeder, Commander of the Pacific Fleet, and this was his flagship, the Guided Missile Light Cruiser USS PROVIDENCE with orders to leave home port San Diego for a trip to Hawaii. Just an over-and-back. The admiral had a retirement party to attend. His retirement party. He was like a celebrity arriving in a limousine; except that when you’re the admiral you take your flagship complete with a crew of three hundred sailors.

We were less than halfway to Hawaii when the weather got serious. There was talk about the storm they'd been tracking since before we left San Diego. Now the ship’s captain and the admiral were meeting to decide whether to turn and run or ride it out.

We listened to guesses as to what the admiral and captain would decide. From the talk, it sounded like it could go either way. For me, going to sea for the first time into a typhoon was like learning to ride a horse on a bucking bronco with a burr under the saddle.

With all the rough movement we had to type with one hand and hang on with the other. Our boss, Commander Simms, had us knock off work.

The guys were talking about how bad storms can get when word came down we’d proceed to Hawaii and go through the middle of the typhoon. Everyone kept their mouths shut and took the news like the seasoned sailors they were.

Six hours later we were in the typhoon. When we thought it couldn’t get any worse, it did. The ship’s motion became a violent thrusting up, slamming down. Non-stop battering. We had to shout to be heard over the noise of the terrible wind and the relentless, churning, frothing ocean.

The bow nose-dived between waves into the green water of the ocean - the water you normally don’t see, below the surface. The ship didn’t cut dolphin easy through the waves. We were big and heavy. We leaped forward, took a dive into the abyss and then smashed into the water and recoiled like a bull bashing a wall of concrete.

We flung far over to the left, then all the way over to the right, and then slammed back as the stern hit another wall. Then we’d leap and smash on the bow as the cycle began again. Our forward speed, instead of over twenty, was reduced to three knots.

This action continued for a day and a half - forward hit, left, right, then slam on the stern. Our big ship felt vulnerably small and awkward out there. A baby elephant floundering in the breakers.

From the bridge, located one hundred fifty feet behind the bow and four levels high, we saw ocean water scooped from the bow thrown over us and the entire vessel. Water crashed against the bridge windows with such force it seemed it could smash them. There were tremendous mountains of waves in all directions. The storm became more ugly and louder than I could have imagined and progressively increased until the ship remained awash down in the hollow, with waves higher than the bridge windows at all times. There was no horizon, only gigantic, tormented walls of water, around and above, battering us.

It was beginner’s luck I didn’t feel queasy or lose my appetite. By evening, when it was time to eat, I went down to the mess deck. Along the way, I walked over the less fortunate, sailors too ill to crawl to their bunks, lying in the passageways.

On the mess deck, instead of hundreds, there were fewer than a dozen there. We had our choice of cold cereals. It was impossible to cook with the tossing around of the ship. Word was that ninety per cent of the crew were too sick to walk.

On the steps going up a deck, when the vessel dug-in on the bow, I flew all the way up to the top step and hung on, leaned left, leaned right, dragged backward when the ship slammed down on the stern, and jumped forward to the next deck as the bow jammed into the sea like a shovel into wet cement.

After thirty-six hours of churning, we were in the eye of the typhoon and the surge lessened, the skies cleared. It appeared the storm was over. The general mood of the crew improved, although it was only the first half of the storm. When we started to feel optimistic, we passed through the eye and entered the other side of the typhoon.

The counter winds hit us for a repeat of the tumultuous storm we’d just lived through, except the winds came from the opposite direction. We rode the fury for another day and a half until finally the seas calmed and we made it through and on to Hawaii.

Thinking back, it was good fortune that enabled me to view it all from the admiral’s bridge, to witness such dreadful magnificence. I feel lucky to have lived through it, pleased I didn’t get sick. Would I do it again? No thanks. I may have been adventurous then, and too green to have the sense to be frightened to hell and back. The oceans are not to be taken lightly.

The Proposition

This February morning when looking from our apartment window I thought of that ocean storm, with memories fragmented, images dissolved by the passing years, all but washed down the memory drain.

You ready?

My wife brought me back from my reverie.

Yeah. Give me a minute.

As I opened the tall vertical window for a better look, skies were clear. Gusting air brushed me. By the scent and gentle touch I sensed the advent of spring – harbinger of our time to return home.

After a winter of temperatures a few degrees above freezing, it was time to start thinking about leaving Rome. Each year, we leave friends, the food, the action of this ancient city and spend the summer months in Ohio. This time, for the trip back, I had been thinking about changing plans. For weeks I gnawed over my big idea, and two points became clear: I needed my wife’s approval and it wasn't going to be easy to get it. I just couldn't think of a good way to mention the plan I had, but I was running out of time. Our departure was fast approaching. So, I decided this would have to be the day. I shook my head and smiled.

It looks good out there, rain's gone by, I called as I closed the window. Are you set?

Yes, she said from the doorway. Come on. I’m going down.

She started, then stopped, looked at me; no doubt judging how I was dressed, or was I being paranoid? She is dark-haired, attractive, neat, educated, a well-mannered Ms. Proper. Why'd she team with me? Cause I’m six feet tall, trim and good looking? Perhaps, but that was many years ago. What are you waiting for? Go ahead. I’m right behind you.

Icy eyes continued checking me over. Finally she crossed her arms and said, Change your shirt.

As soon as she said it I nodded like it was a good idea, practically my idea. I could have thought of that myself if I wanted. Meridith shrugged and left.

Meridith, a retired, former office manager for two demanding engineers, devotes her organizational skills to our home life, keeps things in order, especially me. She’s the practical one - I am the guy with the vision, an innate ability to look ahead and forecast the particulars that may benefit if enacted. Need any visions? That’s okay, I didn’t think so.

In April, in the cusp of spring, before the start of summer heat, we leave our tiny apartment in Rome and return home to Meridith’s flower and vegetable gardens. Winter here, summer there, that’s been the routine for years. I earn the money to pay the bills, she keeps things running smoothly. Technically, if this were a zoo she'd be the caretaker. I won't tell her that.

I’ve got my papers to work in Italy, so I freelance in both places. Is living here and there really the best of both worlds as our Italian friends say? I can verify they are definitely two different worlds. While many East Coasters go to Florida for the winter, we come to Rome where the pasta’s better and the wine's cheaper.

A little past noon I closed our apartment door and went down, said ciao to a few friends on the street, Roberto and Mirella. I caught up with Meridith and we headed off.

It occurred to me to tell my wife about my big idea but, instead of starting a commotion on the street for the neighborhood’s entertainment, I decided to wait until we were sitting down, where I could oil her up with a glass of vino. Then I'd gently whack her with it.

I caught up with her on the corner, patiently noting the people around the market and the bakery. We started off. In the open piazza, out of the grey and cold, direct comforting rays of the bright sun touched our faces. Temperatures had climbed above sixty.

Following the dark, damp, winter, Rome sparkled in her glory. Aged church domes shone brilliant against an azure sky. The sheer beauty of it reminded me why we chose to live in this frustrating, chaotic, endlessly enchanting, noisy yet wonderful city. After last night's rain I could hardly smell the dog piss mixed with the exhaust.

We stopped to cross the street. Now, before Easter, people had begun streaming into Rome, while most of the rest of Europe remained under glacial freeze. Tourists of every sort were about. Add a dash of sunshine and we had the kind of day that reminded us we weren’t the only ones who liked it here – and that we had better look both ways before crossing.

Watch it, Jack, Meri shouted as she grabbed my arm, jerked me back.

I saw him, I said as a car sped by. He missed me. I looked to watch him speed away. It’s amazing more pedestrians don’t get mowed down. If Italian drivers could plow a few and keep going it would be a time saver, but with laws and police nobody wants the hassle. The accompanying paperwork would be inconvenient. I'm sure it was an ancient Roman driver who said, I honk, therefore I am.

We knew where we were headed. We were off to a neighborhood pizza and pasta place we had recently discovered. After we crossed the main street, Corso Vittorio, that runs between Piazza Venezia and the Vatican, we were moving at a brisk pace somewhere beyond the Pantheon, not completely lost, only a little. That’s how you do it in Rome - keep walking until you recognize something - and there are interesting sights along the way, old buildings, old this, old that. These narrow winding alleys between tall buildings in the historical center are packed together. We know every other street, but not every street.

Things are going well. Overall, they are, Meri said while we maintained our pace through the crowds of tourists, street vendors, mimes, business folk and beggars.

Yeah, just keep walking. It’s not too far now. I was staying on target, going for food.

No, I mean with my eating.

That’s good.

You know how I ate that oatmeal for breakfast? Meri said.

Yeah, oatmeal, come on it’s almost one o'clock.

Well, I’m proud of the way I ate that.

I had to stop a moment, look at her and consider what she was saying. You beat me. I still had a half a bowl.

No, I mean I’m proud I had just oatmeal instead of something really bad.

We don’t have anything bad to eat, or I would have eaten it. I guess women like to talk this diet talk. She was keeping a good pace and I was proud of her, it wasn’t easy with the people filling the alleyways everywhere we turned.

Do you know where you’re going? She tapped me on the arm to get my attention. I don’t think you know how to get there.

What do you mean? I had to look back at her to scoff at that ridiculous comment. I could find this place blindfolded, practically. Uufhha! Oh, mi scuzi." I'd bumped into some lady who almost dropped her ice cream cone. At least she kept steady on her feet and had enough weight on her that I didn’t knock her down. I kept walking.

You ran into her.

Yeah, she’s okay. It was an accident, she was backing up and, oh, by the way, you sure don’t know your way around these streets better than I do! Come on, let’s get there.

Okay, Pathfinder. At least I’m not lost every time I turn a corner. Oh, look. She stopped in her tracks and pointed at a womens shoe display in a shop window. I’ve never seen those in mauve.

I hesitated for a fraction of a second and grimaced when I saw her looking at the displays in yet another shop window. Oh, joy, I mumbled under my breath.

Taupe, but never mauve.

When I was a kid, taupe wasn’t even invented. We had red, blue…normal stuff. Come on.

We usually didn’t go the same way twice to Pasquale’s. It was a place we'd discovered by accident. We'd passed it many times and noticed it always had a constant flow of customers going in and out, and a small crowd gathered near the door. Finally it dawned on us to try it. Well, it dawned on Meridith, but it could have dawned on me. Anyway, that’s how we found Pizzeria de Pasquale.

I looked behind me again, and this time I had to stop because Meri had to look in every interesting window, and she does it knowing that when she’s finished she’ll look up and find me waiting for her. I waited.

Right or left? She said when she was ready again.

It was obvious, Let’s go this way. I pointed right and started off. Not moving, she raised her hand to her face and thought for a second.

No let’s go this way. There is something I want to see. I followed. We went left. Geez, she remembers where all the shoe stores are in this maze of cobblestone alleys and old stone buildings. I stumbled along behind her. She was up ahead, already checking out another window. In a few minutes we went on, stepping lively. Suddenly we were there. We had to wait for some guy with crumbs all over his safari jacket who was standing in the doorway jamming a slice of pizza in his mouth. We squeezed in, ordered our pasta at the counter and sat down.

I got a half liter of red and we sipped our wine amid the orderly chaos. New comers may be taken aback by how things function in Rome, or wonder if ‘function’ is in the Italian lexicon. There are setbacks and strange ways for foreigners to absorb. We’ve been living here six months a year for more than a decade, and have survived in the confusion. Romans will tell you - it’s not easy.

Meri zoned out watching the coke machine and the coming and going patrons, I thought about my big idea…the one that would rock her boat because it had to do with more water than she cared to think about.

Maybe it would be best if I didn’t mention the trip idea. The thought of taking a ship across the Atlantic would strike fear in her heart. She’d break out in a cold sweat and it would ruin her lunch, maybe cause a scene. I didn't want to provoke turmoil and upset her because of my silly dream. No, it wasn’t the right time to bring it up. I sipped my wine. I should forget the whole thing and leave her at peace. Okay. Better we fly back to the States as we always do. I’ll get a window seat.

After another gulp of wine, gripped the edge of the table with both hands and leaned in, What do you think about going back to the States on a ship? I said it quite calmly but it came out like the impact of an NFL tackle slamming through a fully decorated Christmas tree.

What are you saying? You mean a boat? Are you out of your mind?

We both knew that question was rhetorical, so I ignored it. This wasn’t going to be easy.

Not a boat, a ship.

That went well. I clarified with an attitude of expertise. I said ship with great expression, using hand gestures, doing my best to make ship sound like a large thing on the water.

A cruise ship? Forget it. No way. I’ve never wanted to take a cruise…too many people and way too expensive. I’m going to fly, you take a boat.

I shook my head. She wasn’t on course.

A cargo ship. They’re less expensive than the cruise ships, plus they don’t have a dance band or the five thousand passengers.

Those were big selling points so I paused to let them sink in for a couple seconds, and refilled our wine glasses before I continued.

I’ve heard of them for years, but we’ve never had the opportunity to take one, I said. I think it’s a possibility worth looking into. A cargo ship might be a fun way to go.

The crowd swelled, lunchtime hit its peak. I sipped from my glass and judged that my message had gone over better than expected, so with wine-imbued courage I continued, They take cargo wherever it needs to go in the world, all over the world, everywhere, and the good part is they can take passengers too.

She wrinkled her eyebrows…she was thinking, and then added, You know it’s crazy, don't you? You go ahead and I’ll read about it in the news.

Oh, come on. It’s a way of life! They deliver cargo all over. That’s how stuff gets places. When you got 'em leaning on the ropes tag 'em again. I looked around for something to make my point then held up a saltshaker. Here. This for instance.

She looked at me and at the saltshaker, then looked at me again. Time stopped for a moment as she thought about that. I put the shaker down and picked up my wine. One for the Gipper.

Yeah, well how safe is it? Tell me that.

I laughed aloud and sat back somewhat exasperated, looked around to see if anyone was getting this. How safe? I took a deep breath while I shuffled my fork and knife around, then started again.

What do you mean, how safe? They’re fine. Of course they’re safe! They go all the time. Ships are always going somewhere. They’re sturdy because they’re meant to travel the world. A six year old knows this stuff.

Taking a break in the action I paused to swirl the remaining wine in my glass. In quiet tones I added, They're made out of steel.

I saw her take a breath. She put both elbows on the table and looked me right in the eye. I don’t want to travel the world. I just want to get back to my garden…besides, I don’t have anything to wear.

Oh, my goodness. That was it, end of discussion. I might as well forget it and just sip my wine or look out the window. I had better just think about what’s on TV tonight. The poor baby didn’t have anything to wear. The fashion police were liable to break in here any minute and haul her away and dump her at the market in Istanbul.

A moment passed, a moment of shaking my head and silent fuming in utter defeat when a little bitty, tiny break in the wall occurred…she broke the silence with a softer voice, What do you wear?

My eyes lit up. This was in my favor, a chink in her armor. I sized her up with a glance and slowly nodded my head in total agreement. I see what you mean. What do you wear? To deliver cargo? We’re not hiring on as crew. We’ll just be riding.

I held both hands up and shook them like the guy surrendering to the outlaw in a spaghetti western.

You mean you don’t have to dress up? Isn’t it dressy?

Noooo. I leaned in to deliver the good news, It’s just regular. I got kind of loud when I said that, a few heads turned our way, the people on either side of me scooted away a little, then I composed myself and said gently, Look, you can wear whatever you like, everyday clothes. It’s not a dress up thing. I leaned over the table and whispered, You think I want to go on a dress up thing?

No ice sculptures and all that, right?

I shook my head.

Right, and there’s no bands, sing-a-longs or tuxedos. The whole thing is casual. They probably blow a whistle when it’s time to eat.

"How many other passengers will there be?

I don’t know, maybe a couple others? Not many I imagine. Maybe nobody but us.

Well that’s all right if it’s not real crowded.

I was on a roll, It’s not going to be crowded. This is a freighter for Pete's sake! They’re not lining up to get on board. So what do you think? Do you want to do it?

Well…it wouldn’t be my first choice for transportation.

That sounded practically like a yes to me.

She took a glug of her wine the same instant the waiter came out with our pasta.

Between bites I said, We can check on the Internet for cargo ships. I’ve seen the sites, I know we can find out more. They have reviews and you select where you want to go. First we see what is going from Europe to the States. Maybe there is something leaving from Italy so we could just take a train to the boat, I mean ship.

I stopped talking when I noticed she wasn’t eating any more. I nodded toward her plate.

Are you going to eat the rest of that pasta? I pointed.

I’m full, she said as she pushed her plate toward me. I slid my empty plate off to the side and pulled hers in front of me.

You said ship before. Is there a difference between a boat and a ship?

I thought it over for a second then answered between mouthfuls. A ship is bigger.

She seemed satisfied with that somewhat abbreviated, semi-nautical, semi-knowledgeable response. Some people we knew took a couple of seats at the next table. We all nodded and acknowledged each other.

You have to eat pasta fast if you’re eating with an Italian. They can put it down in a blink and are ready to move on to something else before you can take a breath. I’ve never seen any foreigner finish pasta faster than an Italian. It can’t be done. I guess Italians have some kind of genetic know-how. I’m kind of a slow eater anyway, so it’s no contest for me. I have to hurry just so I don’t take all day and keep other people waiting for a table.

Another moment passed and Meri asked, What about hurricanes?

I shook my head. This was good. She was thinking about it. That’s in the fall. Now it’s okay.

Screwed her face up, I could tell she was thinking.

What do you know about the hazards of rogue waves?

Not a problem. Look, this time of year, you only have to worry about icebergs. I shoveled in another forkful. I saw her eyes widen.

Great. Do I look like I want to worry about icebergs? I don’t think so. The Titanic, you know, sank on April 15th. That’s my birthday! That’s an omen. I don’t think this is such a good idea. Icebergs have always made me a little uneasy.

I waved with my fork over my head in a circle.

They go around ‘em.

I ate the rest of her pasta and didn’t say any more. It seemed it was going well so far except for that slip about the icebergs. At least she didn’t throw a fit, swallow her tongue and start flopping around on the floor like a fish out of water. I’d let my big idea digest a while.

We paid, left the tip, and then walked twenty feet outside the door where we caught the little electric bus. In relative silence we rode back to our apartment. I noticed only one or two bad looking clouds in the sky.

Consideration

How swiftly days passed as the time to return to Ohio drew nearer.

Now and then we spoke about taking a ship to the States. Bits of research were done on the Internet, but we were slow to talk it through. At the same time airfare prices rose like crocuses in the advent of spring.

We carried on with the mundane life of everyday without making any trip decisions. Neither of us felt a desire to pursue any mode of transportation to Ohio. For God’s sake, why leave now, the weather is just getting nice! That was our mantra. But the siren’s song of the spring garden kept calling Meridith. Meridith.

Meridith!

What? she said.

What are you doing?

Thinking.

About what?

My garden,

I nodded.

Oh.

We faced impending departure while ignoring it as often as possible. It wasn’t easy to alter our mind set, and our minds were set in Rome. We enjoy the life, and it holds us hostage.

But, April was waning, Rome was getting crowded and so, like snow geese, we felt the nagging compulsion to fly back to our summer feeding grounds, and, flying is how we’ve always done it. It’s easy to do what you know. My idea for a sea voyage was something out of the box.

A few years ago we briefly considered taking the long trip home on a ship, but due to scheduling difficulties and a lack of pleading on my part, it didn’t happen. Now, I did my best moaning and cajoling to sugar coat the issues, making her objections seem trivial if not fruitless.

I continued talking up the great sea voyage because we both enjoy a good adventure; nothing wild, mind you, nothing perilous. You won’t find us free-climbing a cliff with a kayak under our arms. Not ones to take risks, we’re more off-the-beaten-path travelers. We went to Belize before most people other than the Belizeans had heard of it. We overturned a canoe on the Mopan River and nearly drowned in the jungle torrent, all because an iguana startled us when it dropped out of a tree and splashed next to our canoe when it hit the water. That wasn’t supposed to be dangerous river trip, yet not an ordeal people ordinarily endured, even on a one-star vacation.

We never take group tours, preferring to make our own way wherever we go. Over the years we’ve been stuck many times in out-of-the-way places waiting in the cold or rain for that last train or bus that might never come.

Meri claims she’s an enabler because she goes along with whatever I come up with. But that isn’t how I see it. It is with her assistance we have found our adventures. We are two peas in the same pot of soup.

I was born under the astrological water sign of the dreamer-fish Pisces, and she’s a sure-fire fire sign, Aries. Water is not in her thoughts except for watering flowers. Water puts out fires. Fish, on the other hand, are not commonly known for their logical thinking.

A few days later on a warm spring day we bought a couple of sandwiches for lunch from the corner sandwich shop opposite the bakery, then took them a few steps over to Piazza Farnese, to sit in the sun. A five hundred year old stone bench nicely worn in the right places was the perfect place to enjoy the warmth of the day and our sandwiches.

Yours looks better than mine, I observed.

She nodded. I was dismayed. How come she always got the good one and I didn’t? She saw me puzzling over it.

Same as yours, she said.

What is she doing, reading my thoughts? I looked again to make sure. She chewed on in her inimitable, well-mannered way, while watching pigeons and the tourists cross the piazza. It’s quite a view from the marble benches built into the facade of the large palazzo. The passing parade of shoppers, students, priests and nuns, tour groups, workers