you're gonna rise up singing

Summertime, and the livin' is easy, fish are jumpin' and the cotton is high.....one of these mornings you're gonna rise up singing, then you'll spread your wings and you'll take to the sky.  —Summertime from the Gershwins' Porgy and Bess, lyrics by DuBose Heyward.

midnight wind, a howling and demanding wind, sucked air and tent fabric in, and then, in giant bursts, expelled them again, displacing oxygen like the lungs of a colossus, or a bellows of cosmic proportions. this was no weakling storm lashing at us during the height of summertime on a beach on prince edward island.

we were camping in the dunes on a lonely stretch of that lovely island in the late 80's, a thing unheard of in the united states due to strict dune preservation measures and laws to protect piping plovers and other birds nesting in the sand (probably isn't allowed in canada anymore, either) when a mighty gale and torrential rain blew in and pulled several of our tent pegs and poles out of the sand, toppling one side of the tent. needless to say, we survived in the tent (but of course in the tent....we would never abandon our campsite and head for the nearest hotel, well, not on that camping trip anyway), and the kids had great tales to tell when they got back to school.

a beach made of sand or pebbles or a bold rocky shore or any up close and personal view of the sea—doesn't matter where it is as long as it's not mobbed—i'd travel a distance to find a sea view like that.

where you'll find me in the summertime—where i'd like to find myself—could be the wild and blustery shore of embleton beach in northumberland in the north of england (where the signs on the motorway pointing you in a northerly direction actually say THE NORTH, and going south it's THE SOUTH). the huge, imposing, romantic ruins of dunstanburgh castle (this ground felt the likes of john of gaunt, and the wars of the roses) in the distance beyond the golf course didn't look that far, but as i walked on the beach i realized they were farther away than i thought. that walk was a long time ago, way back in 2004; i have every intention of walking there again.

or it could be on fox island, a hill of granite ledges and boulders—and not much else—deposited by glaciers, only accessible at low tide in phippsburg, maine. climbing and poking around up there is an annual thing i like to do to mark and celebrate the arrival—the essence—of summer. the rocks, wearing skirts of sticky seaweed, periwinkles and barnacles, show off exposed backs and arms and thighs tattooed with colorful lichens.

seagulls do a lot of screaming, and they'll steal your picnic lunch—i've even seen them tugging on tote bag and backpack zippers—if you don't watch out. have to keep an eye on the tide, too; it looks harmless but it's not. i leave enough time to get back when the tide turns, and i stay on the sandbar. a tempting shortcut beckons through the water, yet even for a strong swimmer who doesn't mind cold water, it is not recommended since the swirling waves can pull you under and away. if fog rolls in, foghorns—like the one at seguin island and another one at pond island—are some of my favorite sounds of summer—eerie and forlorn, but wonderful, if you like that kind of thing.

remembered beaches—crane, plum island, embleton, jasper, reef bay, singing sands, goose cove, sea glass, crescent, reid, kitty hawk, higgins, pink, seawall, tarpon bay, popham, gulfside, bamburgh—and all the beaches in between with names i can no longer recall; names forgotten, adrift, blown away as if by a distant sea breeze, but to whose shores i will always return in the sweet lullaby of memory, smiling and singing a little song of summer.

~ photo of the dunstanburgh castle ruins by ed montalvo.

eight strangers

i felt annoyed—an irrational annoyance with people i had never even met before and a legitimate annoyance with myself for feeling this way—as i impatiently finished brushing my hair, picked out a pair of earrings, and speedily applied a dab of lipstick. what would they be like? would we get along? who were the other six people assigned to table 405?

our travel consultant, who gave us all kinds of great tips (including dinner arrangements) about taking a cruise, and offered ideas about the best ship and itinerary for us—she suggested a stateroom upgrade, and even told us the exact stateroom number we should pick—was beyond helpful. if i had gone online myself and started poking around i would have been lost—too many choices for someone who has never been on a cruise before and who was a bit anxious about the whole thing in the first place.

after months of waiting we were finally about to experience our first dinner onboard. we walked down the the long staircase to deck 4 and as we crossed the large formal dining room toward our table, i saw a man and a woman just settling in at a table for eight directly in front of a dramatic two-story wall of windows with a view over the ship's stern, a table which would also turn out to be ours. they were alone; the six other chairs were not yet occupied.

these two smiled and laughed and chatted with the head waiter—all the wait staff were men dressed in crisp black suits with white shirts and black ties—as he pulled out the lady's chair and handed them their napkins. i thought to myself as we got to the table: they look nice—yeah, down-to-earth. they seem happy and comfortable and relaxed. you'll get along just fine with them. but then i quickly amended my first assumption when panic snuck in and i thought: you're crazy. you don't know these people. they're complete strangers. you can't tell anything by merely looking at them. they could be uncommunicative. or pretentious. or obnoxious. or, even worse, what if they haven't read a good (discussable) book or a thought-provoking book or ANY book at all in the last few months?


i was eventually able to let out a big sigh of relief—as it fortunately turned out my first assumption was the correct one, about this couple and our four other table companions.

their names were bob and linda.* linda was a university administrator and bob did something businessy—i can't remember what, though. they were in their early fifties and they were a pleasant couple who engaged easily in conversation. we seemed to have a lot in common. they had three kids and this summer they were going to be grandparents for the first time, just like us. they lived outside st. louis, missouri.

also at our table for eight was one other married couple, danilo and caliso, both medical doctors (she's a pediatrician), originally from the phillipines, who now lived in the suburbs north of detroit, michigan. they were in their early sixties, had three kids and two grandchildren, all born in the states. cali looked to be about forty-five—just like me. (no joke. people say that. go ahead and ask them, plus it's fun to do some number flipping, right ams?) cali was petit and fine-boned and very pretty. she was also rather funny and talked fast like i have a tendency to do when i get into a good discussion, when i'm enjoying myself. to me they were an extremely pleasant couple, interesting and fun to talk to.

the last two people at the table were marge and evina. they were friends from nova scotia whose husbands didn't want to go on the cruise. evina was an anesthesiologist and marge worked in the medical field and they each had one twenty-year-old daughter. evina was originally from scotland and spoke with a delightful scottish accent.

after completing these initial introductions, we launched into some good conversations which extended over the next few nights. we were not obligated to sit with one other at an assigned table, and we could easily have eaten dinner in any of the ship's other four restaurants, but, just like that, we agreed that we were fortunate in having been sorted into our present seating arrangement.

we were eight strangers tossed together on a ship in the middle of the ocean, trading stories and laughing and drinking wine as if we had known each other for years. we were eight strangers who, just like that, were friends for five days—a flash of days, quick as lightning—here and then suddenly gone, as if maybe they had never been real, as if they had never actually happened at all.


*i changed everyone's name for no reason other than just for fun—because i felt like it, because i can—not to protect identities or anything. the names are fiction, the rest is not.

jamaica in layers

the throaty purr of the engines rises from deep within the ship's belly and rumbles upward along her metal ribs to the deck outside our stateroom and greets me by transmitting a comforting hum under the soles of my feet. i like the feeling—especially when i'm barefoot, and that's a lot—and the constancy of the warm feline-like vibration. (i will miss it when we say good bye to the ship.) my feet are learning to roll as the ship rolls, to move with her, to adjust to the pitch and instinctively steady themselves. some people feel queasy and ill as we approach jamaica—luckily i have escaped this fate—and as the ship is forced to leave falmouth. storm clouds smother the sun and the sea is too choppy for the tenders to carry passengers ashore. she must change course and tie up at the dock in ocho rios.

uncooperative weather has canceled several of the shore excursions so i go and sit on the pool deck, gab with newly made friends, and let myself fall under the spell of the turquoise sea. some adventurous men head out on their own into ocho rios and are quickly offered the opportunity to purchase all kinds of naughty pleasures and to negotiate "private" guided tours in the hills surrounding the town. i worry about their safety when i hear this and i am relieved when the men return safely.

in the land of reggae, rastas, ganja, and rum, the stories i hear the men tell when they get back to the ship go something like this.

you're barely off the dock when you meet the first man. he's a young man standing on the side of the road and he comes up to you and, in that familiarly pleasant jamaican-accented english, asks in a low voice, "hey, mon, you wanna buy some booze? rum. real cheap." you pass. you keep walking and a second man approaches you in the same manner as the first, "hey, mon, you wanna woman? real pretty." again, you pass. a third man approaches and quietly says, "hey, mon, i got some real sweet ganja. real good stuff, real good deal." you wonder what other treats the island will have to offer as you keep walking on the road into town.

and another story.

you're barely off the dock when a young man—a real good salesman, in fact—wants to make a deal. he will, for 60 bucks, be your personal tour guide on a 3 hour hike unaffiliated with any of the tours offered by the cruise company. (this sounds a little risky but he seems pleasant and articulate and motivated and you know he needs the money, so you count out the cash and hand it over.) he will take you up into the hills (he points to a trail on the side of the road) and he guarantees you will experience a rare opportunity, a first-hand look at the real jamaica, the jamaica most tourists don't have a clue about.

as you scamper up trails and jump across streams you are slowly introduced to the layers, the levels, one at a time. first, the layering of the gorgeous land—the lush, green jungle, the exquisite view of the tall blue mountain peaks in the distance, the towering banana and coconut trees, the winding rivers and breathtaking waterfalls.

next you witness the other levels, the really eye-opening ones, the ones that trickle down from the mountaintops and highlight a modern day type of class system, a social layering based on color (you know how it works—generally, the lighter the skin, the higher the class). at the very top are the vast coffee plantations. a little lower and you get a peek at the large vacation homes—hey, look over dare, mon, dats mick jagger's house, mon, and he rent it out to da best people, but only da best people—hidden beyond the barbed wire. lower still, you view the gated apartment complexes and you think you're at the bottom at long last when you see the wooden shacks and tar paper and cardboard and metal shanties. but you're wrong. there's still another level—the level of the graveyard and the garbage dump.

when you get back to the beginning of the trail you thank the young man for the excellent tour and hand him an additional, well-deserved 30 bucks (your last greenbacks). what's 30 bucks to you? you dig your hands deep into your pockets and pull out what you find—2  lighters, a handful of quarters and dimes, 3 packs of gum, a pack of cigarettes, and a container of mints. you give them to the jamaican. after all, he can use this stuff way more than you.

under a cuban sky

and standing on the free soil of the pearl of the antilles—i can wish for it, wish for the impossible, wish for the possible—that's a better attitude—there's always that. no one can stop me.

instead i'm here, on a ship, atop a lounge chair, dressed in a t-shirt and striped pajama bottoms, cruising past the tropic of cancer—the cays and isles of the sabana-camaguey archipelago to the west—through the great bahama bank at a steady 19 knots, staring at the ghostly form of her cool, pine-covered slopes, slopes partially cloaked in gray clouds—the trinidad peaks, the sierra del escambray, the sierra maestra—moving, shifting in the distance—what is land? what is sky? what is hidden?—getting closer, 14 nautical miles to starboard, cuba the unattainable.

elusive freedom. a ten years' war, an 1898 war, regime after regime, with wars and rumors of war blocking her, blocking us, and always the fight to ensure her citizens would have civil and political freedom, the fight to guarantee that, at the very least, her sons and daughters living away from her shores could visit and send money home. always the fight to lift the barrier—push it away once and for all—which shrouds the pearl from our view.

to hear her music—the latin american son cubano of spanish guitar and african rhythms, and the derivatives, salsa, rumba, cha-cha-cha; the mambo "conversation with the gods", songs in kikongo brought to cuba by central african slaves—in the place where it originated. into cuba. a wish. will it happen in our lifetime?

             
i tried to bring you the buena vista social club's mandinga but it's not working and i can't delete it. sometimes i hate computers.

welcome aboard

for years i think it was a mixture of wariness and dread—a mild dread, but dread nonetheless—yes, those two things, that affected my whole notion of cruise on a monolithic cruise ship.

i was uncomfortable with the thought of being stuck onboard a vessel hundreds of miles out on the ocean with 2000 strangers. i was unnerved by what i perceived in my own (mostly imagined) version of the cruising demographic (mostly based on food orgies, attire, and level of drunkenness, instead of the usual age, sex, and income level): vacant-eyed, rum-guzzling gamblers under the hypnotic spell of slot machines and blackjack tables, white-haired folks (god love 'em cuz i'll be one soon enough) with tall white sport socks rising stoically out of tidy white sneakers (white hair is fine but, dammit, i refuse to put on this footwear as part of my twilight years fashion ensemble), people whose pot bellies tried to remain politely contained but instead willfully cascaded over high-waisted pants, and those travelers with a kooky love for nonstop eating in general and ice-sculpture brunch buffets in particular.

it all started last year. we bid on a cruise at a charity auction, never really intending to be the highest bidder, only meaning to have some fun and to raise money for a good cause, but then, before i knew exactly what was happening, the auctioneer called out "SOLD" and pointed in our direction. it was a done deal.

suddenly i was going on a cruise to the caribbean.

i know that most people would jump at the chance to sail in the warm turquoise waters past cuba and around jamaica and the grand cayman islands, and i know, had i written this before i left, that if i had told you that as the date of our embarkation approached i began to get a little nervous, you would have said to yourselves as you read this how can she be such an ungrateful wretch? she should stop being ridiculous and just have a good time.

exactly. i could hear you saying those words, i had a premonition about those words, so that's what i did. i listened to you. i went on a cruise and had a good time, just like you said, and i lived to tell my tale.

but before i go and have that good time that i'll tell you about soon (let's pretend it's still a few weeks ago), i have to get something off my chest, so to speak. i must confess something embarrassing to you, the real reason i balked at going on a cruise all along. confession #1: i hate crowds. i'm talking about the kind of crowds at the mall on a rainy saturday (you'll never find me there), the crowds in subways during rush hour, the crowds in touristy gathering spots like times square on new years eve (nor there either) and the all-day crowds on the piazza del campo in sienna (i survived), and the kind of crowds i envisioned on a giant cruise ship. confession #2: it's embarrassing, but i can get physically ill in dense, surging masses of humanity that press against me—my skins crawls, my palms start to sweat, my heart races, i feel headachy, nauseous and dizzy.

there. i've said it. i feel so much better now that i've unburdened myself.

as it turns out, i needn't have been concerned about crowds in the first place. the ship was huge and obviously, obviously—look at how i can toss out that word "obviously"with confidence and reckless abandon now that i've returned—the 2000 people were easily dispersed over all that square footage on deck after deck after deck. only the pool area was mobbed, but even the pool was okay when gobs of people debarked for excursions in the ports of call.

we walked around in town and then jumped back on the tender hours before we were due to set sail again to take advantage of the uncrowded atmosphere, to relax and listen to the live steel drum music onboard.

and the real demographic of the cruise? a pleasant mix of older folks, those in the middle aged 45 to 60-ish (that's me in the middle of the middle age demographic), trendy young people, and families.

as for the conclusions i drew from my own unofficial demographic, i can sum them up easily enough—my fellow shipmates dressed very nicely. i didn't notice any long, white tube socks paired with white sneakers—no, not even on those glassy-eyed, vacantly-staring gamblers. i couldn't help observing, however, the extreme popularity of the over-the-top ice-sculpture brunch buffet as i walked from table to table laden with platters of mouth-watering goodies (i've never seen so many different salads, meats, fish and desserts in one place) and happily filled my own plate sky high.

it was a wonderful trip and the millennium is a beautiful ship.

~ i'm back on dry land again at home in freeport and i am shaking my head and wondering about my imagined fear of cruising. coming up: more on cruising—stuff you won't find in travel brochures.