And Now For Something Completely Different..

This is about adoption, I swear.  It’s a conceptual piece, roll with it.

Pat fell right out of the berth and onto the floor, the same as every morning.  The hard floor and constant motion took away any bit of escape that sleep had afforded her.  She crawled into the tiny bathroom, there was no point in actually getting up, she knew what was ahead of her.  It did not matter if it was Mazatlan, Acapulco, or fucking Brussels, it would all be the same.

She knew that there was no aspirin, it was all gone months ago, after living on nothing but rum punch all this time she would have given anything for just one.  Julie would be around soon to collect her for the land excursion, she had no choice but to get ready.  She showered quickly, put on her shorts, fanny pack, and the t-shirt she had purchased yesterday in Manzanillo.  The shirt said Manzanillo.

Pat envied the ones that had succumbed.  The ones with the weak livers, overcome by the rum that never ran out, the ones that went in the last flu outbreak, and especially the ones that had the courage to throw themselves over the side.  She heard that a young girl had tried to shoot herself in the chest with a starter pistol during the on-deck three-legged race yesterday.  It didn’t work, but Pat did feel some sense of admiration for her.

It was bad, really bad, but it was not bad enough for Pat to take herself out forever.  It hadn’t always been like this, she had a life before, there had to be a way out.  She had to hang on. Somehow someone would figure a way out of this.

They had promised something different this morning.  She knew that meant different cabanas, different friendly locals selling them different rugs, and hats, and t-shirts, all in what might as well be the same place. It never changed, not really.  The music would be playing, there would be a limbo contest, drinking games, beach time, then the return to the ship.  The buffet, the floor show, and a forced march on the deck, before being allowed to return to her tiny cabin.  In hindsight she should have paid for first class.

She heard Julie’s knock at the door, peppy as always, and knew that she had to go. She left her cabin and heading to the upper deck with everybody else.   The most frightening thing about all of this was that some people actually seemed to be enjoying this.  The retiree from Columbus, who’s husband had died two weeks in, acted as if this where she wanted to be, day after day.  The crew fussed over her, especially Isaac, she ate it up.

It was different today, very different.  It wasn’t real, or what had passed for real all the other days.  It was like a painting, it was like being in a painting.  A painting that stretched all around, you could see the brush marks in the sky.  There was no sun, but there was light, not the tropical light that she had become used to, painterly diffused light.  The air was thick, and cool, the water was calm, not ocean water, lake water.  The Pacific Princess looked gray, the crew uniforms dingy in this light.

Looking out Pat recognized where she was, what painting she was in.  The water, the island with two giant rocks at the entrance, she knew it.  She could not recall the name.  She remembered being struck at how peaceful, yet ominous, the image was when she first saw it.  But something wasn’t right, something was missing.  She could not place it.  Before she could figure it out, a coconut filled with rum punch was placed in her hand and she knew it was time to get in line to get on the launch.  She kept looking, there should be something else out there, she knew it.

The line was moving slowly, no one was speaking, some stared out in awe, some still just looked down like always.  Everyone was calm.  Pat noticed that everything, the ship, the people, even her own skin had taken on an oily gloss from the mist.  It smelled faintly of dust, and something petroleum based.  At first she had thought it was from the ships diesel engines, but now she recognized it as turpentine.

It was quiet, no noise from the engines on the boats that would take them to the shore.  Pat realized she had not heard a launch take off yet.  She was still so calm, she thought that she should be panicking, but just couldn’t. It felt like entering church, or a museum, awe, fear and a feeling of smallness, but not insignificance, surrounded her.  She took a drink of her rum punch and waited.

The line moved, but still no boats took off.  There were only a few people in front of her now, and she could still not see where they were going.

As she neared the front of the line, Pat saw what she could not place in the painting.  The boat, the tall draped figure.  She saw the man in front of her get in. The tall figure did not turn around, and began to move the boat away.  As she stepped forward, she saw the same boat, the same figure, just as it had been seconds before when the man got in.

She got in the boat and did not turn around to look at the tall draped figure.  She felt the boat begin to move, took a swig of rum punch and looked into the mist. In a few moments she could hear music coming from the island, Wagner, not a mariachi band.  Whatever kind of hell this was, she knew she was ready for it.  She kept her eyes forward.