Beneath the surface 7

November 9th
Day one of adventure! Yes! Leaving England at four in the morning was not an experience I loved. Still I was leaving England to avoid an English winter. That morning was freezing and I of course I had to carry the heaviest bag in the world on my back. If I could have filled a bag with cement it would have been marginally heavier.
My brother was kind enough to walk me to the bus station. It was Sunday morning after Saturday night and there were plenty of drunks meandering across the road. A group of drunken teenagers had cleverly found an Asda trolley and filled it with their mates. They were ramming everything they saw; everyone screamed with drunken delight. Bournemouth by night - spectacular!

At the bus station a group of swearing drunks were trying to convince the bus driver that they were sober and should be allowed on the bus… When I turned up with my luggage they stopped swearing and asked my brother where I was going.
‘Antarctica,’ he said.
‘What’s it like to party down there?’ they asked.
‘It’s a vast land of ice, settled with a few military bases and scientific research stations,’ was Bro’s specific response.
‘So not that great then?’ asked the drunk.
‘Not unless you’re a penguin,’ I responded.
The group studied me curiously.

Once at Heathrow I made my way to terminal five for a fast and efficient check in. I kept the heaviest bag in the world with me and realised this was the last time I would be in England for six months. For an hour I sat and watched people mill about the airport. It dawned on me that we were all there for a common reason: we were all going somewhere to do something. The airport, for me, was always the beginning of something new. I love airports because people are united or have a purpose. Everyone at that airport is anticipating a new adventure or returning from an experience. I find that inspirational. Although making your way through security was quite the opposite - especially when your knee-high, buckled boots set off alarms.
The window seat of the plane was always the worst in terms of toilet access. On top of that two guys slept next to me. Boring! The flight was ten hours long so I had no choice but to watch four films in a row. I regulated my bladder to three hourly bursts… You know what? The guy next to me kept blowing off. He was from Norway and whenever he woke up stuffed that weird tobacco stuff under his lip. He then made a loud sucking sound before he returned to sleep. He smelt odd too, like mud, wet dog and pete bog combined. So ten hours of rot smell - brilliant! That was the trouble of flying alone: you never know who you’re going to get stuck next to. One time I had an obese Russian with a body odour problem. Another time the check-in girl was having a joke and placed me amongst the Kenyan weight lifting team. I was the last person on the plane, with one seat remaining amongst five rows of muscle bound Kenyans. What made it worse was the other passengers appeared to be waiting in anticipation: who was the lucky person who had been allocated the remaining seat? Me!

Arrival in the U.S is usually awkward; they treat you like convicts; guilty until proven innocent. As a member of crew I was escorted to a room full of other potential felons who were obviously trying to break into America. Anyway in the ‘special’ interview room I met Amy, a South African who worked on my new ship. She was tall, blonde and had a face designed for customer service. Her face could smile while her eyes drove daggers into anyone who gave her grief. I liked her.
‘Are you going to be working for Sparkle too?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Is it your first time on a ship?’
That was a standard question; it seemed people were always interested in gauging how ship naive you were.
‘No it’s my fourteenth.’
‘Ah, quite experienced then?’ she said with a wink.
Brackets (ah you know what it’s like and you’re not going to fall for anything. And you are aware of the new meat syndrome.)
Inside the potential felons waiting room we waited and waited. Amy was friendly so we chatted about everything under the sun. She was in awe of the fact that four of the five interviewers /guards were in a heated debate about Obama and the pro’s and cons of his leadership. Bearing in mind there were probably fifty of us waiting to be cleared, it seemed a little shoddy. It was apparent the interviewers were all trying to get out of work! Eventually a fight broke out between the guards and they had to be separated. It was apparent that to avoid work all you had to do was physically fight with your colleagues! A technique I may well employ on the ship.
Two hours later I was interviewed about being a photographer. I was further interviewed about the fact that I used Canon rather than Nikon. The security guard was actually attempting to convert me… Madness! I wondered whether I would be put back on a plane because of my taste in camera equipment.
Eventually I cleared security and Linda was waiting in the arrivals area. She was a portly, middle aged lady with yellow-blonde bobbed hair and a classic English accent. When we caught the taxi a wave of realisation hit me: I was out of England and in the warmth of Miami. Life was full of potential. Yey!!!!
When we arrived at the hotel Linda arranged for me to have my own room. Thank goodness! The first thing I did was check to see if there were any biscuits and peruse the mini-bar to see what drinks were for the taking. After eating a whole host of short breads and pistachio nuts with diet coke I finally relaxed. Whilst still chewing I took a shower and ignored the little voice calling me to sleep. At that moment I had already been awake for at least to twenty four hours.
‘Do you want to go for a stroll and get some food or go to sleep?’ asked Linda down the phone.
‘A stroll and food would be good. I’d love to see Miami by night,’ I replied
‘Okay I will meet you in the foyer in five minutes,’ she said.
Strolling through a plaza close to the Marina you could smell salty, warm air. It was so comfortable in comparison to the bitter English weather.
We found an Italian restaurant with tables spread along a promenade, it overlooked numerous yachts. Beneath the restaurant was a docking area for speed boats. One particular boat had two drunken topless guys wearing baseball caps; they danced/swaggered in a drunken seductive manner to some Latin music. Their dance evolved into gestures, I side glanced and noticed they were trying to gain our attention.
‘Don’t look but they’re calling you over. Do you want to go and dance with them?’ I asked cheekily.
‘No way! Not to that music!’ she said very seriously.
‘Do you want me to get them to change the music?’ I said with a smirk.
She giggled and sensed I was up to mischief. Linda was a real sweetie; she was organised, efficient and straight down the line. We drank wine and chatted endlessly. In fact we could have both won medals in the chatting/random story Olympics.
On the journey back to the hotel I noticed a massage area. Chairs were set up for a street massage. Ten dollars for ten minutes and my God it was worth it. After such a long flight and carrying such a heavy bag the massage was perfect. I treated Linda to a pummelling I think she would have preferred not to have. In a daze the pair of us wafted back to the hotel to learn that Marissa had arrived.
Marissa was Brazilian and employed to work on my photo team. It turned out that she was not a trained photographer; she had worked as a waitress on a ship. She decided to change roles and become a photographer. Something was niggling me: Ken had clearly stated that all the photographers on board would be professional… Was I surprised he had lied again? What was worse was I suspected she was paid the same wage. I wondered how she got the job.
Marissa opened the door, ‘Hello.’
The answer to how she got the job suddenly became clear: massive boobs.
‘Marissa?’ asked Linda
‘Yes me Marissa from Braaaaaaaaaazil.’
‘Hi,’ I said.
‘I am from Rio,’ she said side-glancing me.
‘Good,’ said Linda.
Marissa looked around forty something, a bottled blonde with light eyes and brown creased skin. She was petite on top and looked as though she was carrying two pillows in her knickers. I accepted Brazilians were famed for their behinds, but this lady had an amble bottom that did not fit with the rest of her body. How could I explain? The bottom suited a woman who may well require one and a half seats on a bus rather than just one. Maybe it could be described as two ferrets trapped in a pillowcase - per cheek. Obviously Marrissa caught me looking her over and shot me a glance.
For a woman of her age her behaviour was like that of a small girl. She looked and acted with a soft voice, a voice eager to impress her new boss. Still when you peered into her eyes you sensed something else: she was not quite what she seemed. I could sense we weren’t going to get on. What was worse we were going to have to share a cabin.
Oh God I hope she’s not a psycho! I have shared rooms with far too many nutters to list. Although the one who stapled beer cans together to build her plane home was pretty bad, then there was the woman who I woke up to find her watching me sleep. God please let Marrissa be sane!
We bid Marissa good night, it was already apparent that her English language was not all that. There was confusion and a blank expression over simple words.
‘We will see you tomorrow Marissa,’ said Linda.
‘Yeyyysss.’
‘At Breakfast,’ said Linda.
‘Yeysss.’
‘You understand?’ asked Linda in a concerned tone.
‘Yeyssss.’
‘Tomorrow,’ said Linda in a louder tone.
‘Yeysss.’
‘Okay?’ said Linda.
‘Yeysss.’
‘Good night,’ said Linda
‘Linda, where tomorrow meet I?’
Oh shit!