Fiji Death Cruise
by Daniel Asa Rose
MAY 13, 2010 TAGS:
I had just come off a honeymoon cruise – the only unmarried person aboard a ship full of merry wedding celebrants: half a week among the Yasawa Islands west of Fiji. Freshly divorced but evidently bearing up well, I was adopted by the reveling couples as something of a mascot, the object lesson everyone wanted at their table to serve as a sort of buccaneer cautionary tale: cheery with a gash in my chest. The couple I spent most of my time with consisted of a beautiful young stewardess from California with aspirations toward art that her helplessly earnest husband couldn’t grasp, and the three of us had spent the bulk of our time together, lazing under palm trees of the isles we visited, trying not to step on the deadly stone fish or attract the wild boars or get attacked by leeches in various underwater grottoes, and at night drinking kava together and making arrangements to all three have a reunion when we got back to the States. In truth, I had a renegade yen for the stewardess round-the-clock. The wall of my bunk was the wall of their bunk in the cabin adjacent, and after we retired for the night with polite kisses I would hear the thump of their lovemaking and will the stewardess to think of me. For the farewell ceremony, the passengers volunteered me to make the toast, and I ended up feeling inordinately fond of everyone. But when the hugs were over and we were finally free to go our separate ways, I was relieved to walk the empty streets of Lautoka and not have to wear a smile for everyone, not have to steel myself for yet one more goofy joke, and to at last be done with my four-day crush.
With time to kill -- my flight back to the States wasn’t till the next evening -- I strolled the deserted docks of Lautoka in the calm hour before sunset and bought a felafel from the only shop still open. I befriended the Muslim felafel dealer and watched his ablutions – the repetitively complex way he rinsed his ears was particularly impressive, like a skillful bottle washer at a busy airport bar -- as we talked about life and death. I felt light and footloose, as though I’d been wearing ankle weights for four days and now I was unshackled. I asked how he’d suggest I spend the next 24 hours, and he surprised me by recommending a nearby island that bragged of some local infamy as a wild party resort.
It was only a couple of hours away by commercial boat, so I signed on to a 40-foot yawl and off we sailed. It was 6 p.m. and I felt deliriously happy. The sun was sinking like a rotten tangerine into the South Pacific and the wind was picking up rousingly and I was up toward the bow leaning against the mast sucking on a local beer, relishing my non-mascot status on this small boat that had only two crew members and three other paying passengers: a white mother and daughter from Sydney, and a mysterious black man in shades with sparse outcroppings of hair on his cheeks and a black vinyl case that looked as if it housed a submachine gun. I sighed with delight. Feeling the wooden mast running up against my spine, I calculated that at that moment I was one of the luckiest people on the planet. Completely and profoundly unfettered.
The wind continued to rise. After a while I noticed that my spine was smacking against the mast with each wave we crashed against. The skipper was hollering for me to return to the cockpit, and had perhaps been hollering for a while before I heard him.
The rocking made it difficult to keep my footing, but when finally I stumbled back to the cockpit the mother cast me a worried glance. “Are we all right?” she asked. I had been watching a giant cruise ship far off our port side, and I told her that if things got really rough, we could always signal it to come to our aid. The black man rolled a glance off me that was impossible to read behind his shades. The sun had been gone a good while now and with the encroaching darkness our boat seemed to lunge into each wave more recklessly; lashings of foam sprayed us as we bobbed.
Then I saw a chilling sight. The cruise ship in the distance was coming about.
“Where’s it going?” I yelled to the skipper.
“Back to port,” he yelled to me.
The waters were evidently too rough for the giant cruise ship, and yet here we were, a mite upon the ocean, sticking it out. The skipper judged that we were halfway to the party island and might as well keep going.
The next hour was dire. All was turmoil on the boat: glasses shattering, bodies flying. We were too terrified to be nauseated. The mother and daughter wept and prayed in each other’s arms. But up above, the night sky was serene, the Southern Cross unconcerned. I wished I could be there among the stars, away from this earthly mire. It seemed impossibly stupid – ill-conceived and small-minded – to think that my corporal body had to be stuck here on this dangerous aquatic speck when I could see clearly where I had to go for safety. Why did my body have to be exposed to the insanity of the elements when I could see exactly where to get out of harm’s way? Up there, away from this pitiless pounding! I fancied that if I stared hard enough, I could transport myself there, above the fray.
I’d had simplistic end-of-life thoughts before. When a lover had cancer, I hadn’t been able to understand why it couldn’t be a cinch to exorcize it. Everyone knew the goal: Was it such a difficult mathematical problem to get A [disease] out of B [the patient’s body] into C [a stainless steel surgical vat] where it could be laughed at? So too here: The goal was to get A [us] off B [the boat] and into C [the sky] where we could be safe. If one could see the problem so simply laid out, why couldn’t one execute the plan?
Continuing to gaze skyward, I remembered when I’d once peered down with the same yearning. Leaving Philly on a 757 bound for Tampa, the captain announced that we’d lost an engine and would have to make an emergency landing. “Don’t be nervous if you see ambulances,” he intoned. As passengers crossed themselves and located barf bags, I managed to make out a network of eminently land-able roads among the trees below; what was the delay in getting us down? If I could see it with my eyes and comprehend it with my brain, why couldn’t my eyes and brain make it happen? Smash these clouds and screw the hold-up!
Wet-knuckled aboard the boat, I recollected the nautical charts I had studied on the cruise ship the previous four days, with its warning about the waters we were plying right now: “Uncharted. Many sunken coral heads.” If we sank, I knew our carcasses would be dragged across the coral heads, making us even more attractive to the sharks infesting these waters. I found myself mourning my four-day amour, its memory about to be mashed to bits in some motherless shark’s maw. Was there nothing permanent to hold onto anywhere? Everything was as wispy soft as the violent fizz stinging my face. Mother and daughter continued to sob and clutch each other. Should I make a vow to take care of them forever, if only we made it to safety? It would be an easy vow to make and not so difficult to fulfill. Or maybe if I survived I should marry the stewardess from the honeymoon cruise, rescue her from her Neanderthal husband? The danger of death was giving me a shocking clarity, but it didn’t feel cruel to call him Neanderthal, merely objective. Being a nice Neanderthal was no worse than being an asshole aesthete – ah, so that’s what I was! I chuckled with end-of-life insight. The Fiji Islands seemed suitable for such perspective, being one of the last places on earth where cannibalism was practiced; I felt capable of eating flesh myself – what was the big taboo? If that’s what had to be eaten … eat it! Life and death – do what had to be done!
Down and up went the waves, bang! Like impossibly long breaths, with an occasional gasp for punctuation. The sea was respiring with us, for us, against us. I was dumbly aware that each thought, each memory, could be my last. I flashed to the letters I’d been reading in my solitary bunk on the honeymoon cruise – letters from prisoners on the death row of Sing Sing Prison. They did not seem sentimentally sad to me now as they had then, merely commonsensical. “Dearest Sweethearts, We press you close and kiss you with all our strength, Lovingly, Daddy and Mommy,” wrote the Rosenbergs to their children in June 1953. “I do not believe I could describe how much I despise myself for this terrible thing,” wrote a prisoner convicted of murdering his wife, to his sons in August 1956. “I loved Mother. I pray to God to forgive me and that my boys will try to soften the terrible hatred you have for me.” His last meal consisted of barbecued chicken and strawberry shortcake with whipped cream – a sensible choice. There in the boat being bounced like a bubble, I appreciated his selection even if I did not share his appetite.
But the prisoners’ children, why did they have to suffer? I thought about my Alex and Marshall safely dry at home, and wondered what it would be like for them to grow up without a father. I felt sad for them, but also happy, because I had given them the things a father could give, and knew they would be all right. Besides, they’d be grown soon anyway, broken off into their own constellations of families. How alone everyone was – our only earthly connections splintering into blackness before we barely had a chance to recognize their light. My brain lurched from the miraculous to the mundane. I thought about the Muslim felafel maker, and how peacefully he had rinsed his ears. I wondered if I had squandered my pagan life, and whether I was worthy of being saved. Once again I turned my attention to the night sky which now seemed phosphorescent with life, mirroring the plankton twinkling playfully in the booming waves all around. Were the constellations a form of plankton in the sea of the sky, or was the sea a form of star-life? The words “frothy with eternity” came to me, and embarrassed me. I was witnessing life at its most inestimable and most primitive; from the one-celled to the infinite; both seemed equally unintelligible. Only an hour before I had exulted in my freedom, but now I saw plainly that plankton was our only witness – that and the halogen blue stars. Throughout all this I was calm and clutchy in equal measures, half-expecting each inhalation to be filled with brine.
Without warning, the black man did a beautiful thing. He unzipped his black vinyl submachine gun case and extracted an acoustic guitar and started whaling. I thought I recognized the song. Then I thought I recognized the man himself. “Taj?” I asked. “Are you Taj Mahal?”
Ayai yai, ayai yai, when we’re talking
Talking about the Fiji Island
Ayai yai, ayai yai, listen to me
Talking about the Fijian man
Ayai yai, ayai yai, listen to me
Talking about the Fijian man
An hour later, passengers and crew alike, beaten beyond nausea and fear, drenched with sea spray and hoarse from bellowing desperate songs … we saw the party island swim into view. At first I feared my eyes were playing tricks on me, and that the lights I spied were only stars low to the horizon. But the lights were yellowish, as opposed to the blue white of the constellations; I dared to believe they were man-made. As we approached, the lights twinkled more insistently, and pretty soon they outshone the stars, and we were within sight of a black hump of land, and a launch boat was chugging out to meet us. The sea was so rough it took three or four minutes to lash our heaving boats together. But soon the Taj impersonator, or whoever he was, was zipping away his guitar and we were on the launch, chugging towards shore. The launch was glass-bottomed, and I could see the plankton semaphoring beneath us, and I felt a connection I’d never felt before. One-celled beings were in this dance with us, for the instant it was supposed to last. And then a clump of more complex-celled creatures was gathering on the beach, a crowd chanting what sounded like “Taj! Taj! Taj!” and soon we were on shore with them, dancing and expressing our various life forces and hooting with abandon. The island lived up to its wild reputation.
Two months later the stewardess arranged to have an overnight in Boston and there we had our long-anticipated reunion. I drove up to see her with the boys and we went to the New England Aquarium and saw the sharks looking resentfully tame behind glass. Alex was cutting up so much that I got harried and strict and the stewardess saw me in a different light, not as a devil-may-care pirate of divorce but as a dad with his dismal assortment of land-lubber responsibilities. I scolded Alex; finally I had to send him, scowling, out of the cafeteria while we ate our spinach lasagna. The stewardess and I never saw each other again.
Daniel Asa Rose’s most recent book is Larry’s Kidney: Being the True Story of How I Found Myself in China With My Black-Sheep Cousin and His Mail-Order Bride, Skirting the Law to Get Him a Transplant … and Save His Life
With time to kill -- my flight back to the States wasn’t till the next evening -- I strolled the deserted docks of Lautoka in the calm hour before sunset and bought a felafel from the only shop still open. I befriended the Muslim felafel dealer and watched his ablutions – the repetitively complex way he rinsed his ears was particularly impressive, like a skillful bottle washer at a busy airport bar -- as we talked about life and death. I felt light and footloose, as though I’d been wearing ankle weights for four days and now I was unshackled. I asked how he’d suggest I spend the next 24 hours, and he surprised me by recommending a nearby island that bragged of some local infamy as a wild party resort. It was only a couple of hours away by commercial boat, so I signed on to a 40-foot yawl and off we sailed. It was 6 p.m. and I felt deliriously happy. The sun was sinking like a rotten tangerine into the South Pacific and the wind was picking up rousingly and I was up toward the bow leaning against the mast sucking on a local beer, relishing my non-mascot status on this small boat that had only two crew members and three other paying passengers: a white mother and daughter from Sydney, and a mysterious black man in shades with sparse outcroppings of hair on his cheeks and a black vinyl case that looked as if it housed a submachine gun. I sighed with delight. Feeling the wooden mast running up against my spine, I calculated that at that moment I was one of the luckiest people on the planet. Completely and profoundly unfettered.
The wind continued to rise. After a while I noticed that my spine was smacking against the mast with each wave we crashed against. The skipper was hollering for me to return to the cockpit, and had perhaps been hollering for a while before I heard him.
The rocking made it difficult to keep my footing, but when finally I stumbled back to the cockpit the mother cast me a worried glance. “Are we all right?” she asked. I had been watching a giant cruise ship far off our port side, and I told her that if things got really rough, we could always signal it to come to our aid. The black man rolled a glance off me that was impossible to read behind his shades. The sun had been gone a good while now and with the encroaching darkness our boat seemed to lunge into each wave more recklessly; lashings of foam sprayed us as we bobbed.
Then I saw a chilling sight. The cruise ship in the distance was coming about.
“Where’s it going?” I yelled to the skipper.
“Back to port,” he yelled to me.
The waters were evidently too rough for the giant cruise ship, and yet here we were, a mite upon the ocean, sticking it out. The skipper judged that we were halfway to the party island and might as well keep going.
The next hour was dire. All was turmoil on the boat: glasses shattering, bodies flying. We were too terrified to be nauseated. The mother and daughter wept and prayed in each other’s arms. But up above, the night sky was serene, the Southern Cross unconcerned. I wished I could be there among the stars, away from this earthly mire. It seemed impossibly stupid – ill-conceived and small-minded – to think that my corporal body had to be stuck here on this dangerous aquatic speck when I could see clearly where I had to go for safety. Why did my body have to be exposed to the insanity of the elements when I could see exactly where to get out of harm’s way? Up there, away from this pitiless pounding! I fancied that if I stared hard enough, I could transport myself there, above the fray.I’d had simplistic end-of-life thoughts before. When a lover had cancer, I hadn’t been able to understand why it couldn’t be a cinch to exorcize it. Everyone knew the goal: Was it such a difficult mathematical problem to get A [disease] out of B [the patient’s body] into C [a stainless steel surgical vat] where it could be laughed at? So too here: The goal was to get A [us] off B [the boat] and into C [the sky] where we could be safe. If one could see the problem so simply laid out, why couldn’t one execute the plan?
Continuing to gaze skyward, I remembered when I’d once peered down with the same yearning. Leaving Philly on a 757 bound for Tampa, the captain announced that we’d lost an engine and would have to make an emergency landing. “Don’t be nervous if you see ambulances,” he intoned. As passengers crossed themselves and located barf bags, I managed to make out a network of eminently land-able roads among the trees below; what was the delay in getting us down? If I could see it with my eyes and comprehend it with my brain, why couldn’t my eyes and brain make it happen? Smash these clouds and screw the hold-up!
Wet-knuckled aboard the boat, I recollected the nautical charts I had studied on the cruise ship the previous four days, with its warning about the waters we were plying right now: “Uncharted. Many sunken coral heads.” If we sank, I knew our carcasses would be dragged across the coral heads, making us even more attractive to the sharks infesting these waters. I found myself mourning my four-day amour, its memory about to be mashed to bits in some motherless shark’s maw. Was there nothing permanent to hold onto anywhere? Everything was as wispy soft as the violent fizz stinging my face. Mother and daughter continued to sob and clutch each other. Should I make a vow to take care of them forever, if only we made it to safety? It would be an easy vow to make and not so difficult to fulfill. Or maybe if I survived I should marry the stewardess from the honeymoon cruise, rescue her from her Neanderthal husband? The danger of death was giving me a shocking clarity, but it didn’t feel cruel to call him Neanderthal, merely objective. Being a nice Neanderthal was no worse than being an asshole aesthete – ah, so that’s what I was! I chuckled with end-of-life insight. The Fiji Islands seemed suitable for such perspective, being one of the last places on earth where cannibalism was practiced; I felt capable of eating flesh myself – what was the big taboo? If that’s what had to be eaten … eat it! Life and death – do what had to be done!
Down and up went the waves, bang! Like impossibly long breaths, with an occasional gasp for punctuation. The sea was respiring with us, for us, against us. I was dumbly aware that each thought, each memory, could be my last. I flashed to the letters I’d been reading in my solitary bunk on the honeymoon cruise – letters from prisoners on the death row of Sing Sing Prison. They did not seem sentimentally sad to me now as they had then, merely commonsensical. “Dearest Sweethearts, We press you close and kiss you with all our strength, Lovingly, Daddy and Mommy,” wrote the Rosenbergs to their children in June 1953. “I do not believe I could describe how much I despise myself for this terrible thing,” wrote a prisoner convicted of murdering his wife, to his sons in August 1956. “I loved Mother. I pray to God to forgive me and that my boys will try to soften the terrible hatred you have for me.” His last meal consisted of barbecued chicken and strawberry shortcake with whipped cream – a sensible choice. There in the boat being bounced like a bubble, I appreciated his selection even if I did not share his appetite.
But the prisoners’ children, why did they have to suffer? I thought about my Alex and Marshall safely dry at home, and wondered what it would be like for them to grow up without a father. I felt sad for them, but also happy, because I had given them the things a father could give, and knew they would be all right. Besides, they’d be grown soon anyway, broken off into their own constellations of families. How alone everyone was – our only earthly connections splintering into blackness before we barely had a chance to recognize their light. My brain lurched from the miraculous to the mundane. I thought about the Muslim felafel maker, and how peacefully he had rinsed his ears. I wondered if I had squandered my pagan life, and whether I was worthy of being saved. Once again I turned my attention to the night sky which now seemed phosphorescent with life, mirroring the plankton twinkling playfully in the booming waves all around. Were the constellations a form of plankton in the sea of the sky, or was the sea a form of star-life? The words “frothy with eternity” came to me, and embarrassed me. I was witnessing life at its most inestimable and most primitive; from the one-celled to the infinite; both seemed equally unintelligible. Only an hour before I had exulted in my freedom, but now I saw plainly that plankton was our only witness – that and the halogen blue stars. Throughout all this I was calm and clutchy in equal measures, half-expecting each inhalation to be filled with brine. Without warning, the black man did a beautiful thing. He unzipped his black vinyl submachine gun case and extracted an acoustic guitar and started whaling. I thought I recognized the song. Then I thought I recognized the man himself. “Taj?” I asked. “Are you Taj Mahal?”
Ayai yai, ayai yai, when we’re talking
Talking about the Fiji Island
Ayai yai, ayai yai, listen to me
Talking about the Fijian man
Ayai yai, ayai yai, listen to me
Talking about the Fijian man
An hour later, passengers and crew alike, beaten beyond nausea and fear, drenched with sea spray and hoarse from bellowing desperate songs … we saw the party island swim into view. At first I feared my eyes were playing tricks on me, and that the lights I spied were only stars low to the horizon. But the lights were yellowish, as opposed to the blue white of the constellations; I dared to believe they were man-made. As we approached, the lights twinkled more insistently, and pretty soon they outshone the stars, and we were within sight of a black hump of land, and a launch boat was chugging out to meet us. The sea was so rough it took three or four minutes to lash our heaving boats together. But soon the Taj impersonator, or whoever he was, was zipping away his guitar and we were on the launch, chugging towards shore. The launch was glass-bottomed, and I could see the plankton semaphoring beneath us, and I felt a connection I’d never felt before. One-celled beings were in this dance with us, for the instant it was supposed to last. And then a clump of more complex-celled creatures was gathering on the beach, a crowd chanting what sounded like “Taj! Taj! Taj!” and soon we were on shore with them, dancing and expressing our various life forces and hooting with abandon. The island lived up to its wild reputation.
Two months later the stewardess arranged to have an overnight in Boston and there we had our long-anticipated reunion. I drove up to see her with the boys and we went to the New England Aquarium and saw the sharks looking resentfully tame behind glass. Alex was cutting up so much that I got harried and strict and the stewardess saw me in a different light, not as a devil-may-care pirate of divorce but as a dad with his dismal assortment of land-lubber responsibilities. I scolded Alex; finally I had to send him, scowling, out of the cafeteria while we ate our spinach lasagna. The stewardess and I never saw each other again.
Daniel Asa Rose’s most recent book is Larry’s Kidney: Being the True Story of How I Found Myself in China With My Black-Sheep Cousin and His Mail-Order Bride, Skirting the Law to Get Him a Transplant … and Save His Life
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