top of page
Search

Rocked in the Deep

Writer's picture: Pru WarrenPru Warren

Oct. 11 (a Friday, as it happens)



 It’s a given in my life that I will sleep soundly for four hours, wake inexplicably for two or three more, and then fall asleep for an hour and a half until something needs to be awoken for. (Twig’s comment—are you chronically sleep-deprived? Why, yes. Yes, I am!)

 

Generally my two or three wide-awake hours are spent under the WAKE UP! influence of the iPad’s screen. Solitaire, web-surfing, finishing the movie I was too sleepy to watch the night before. I use the Calm app to attempt to shift my mental gears into neutral and fall asleep again, with guarded success. See earlier blog posts praising the purring British voice of Brom of the Blackwater, actor Jerome Flynn.

 

But here’s what else can derail the senseless tires-in-the-mud spinning of the brain: A ship at sea.

 

The rocking is simply glorious. Oddly, the lack of rhythm is valuable. It’s not at all like breathing, so it doesn’t fade into the background. No, sometimes the boat is dipping and soaring over large swells, pressing my body into the mattress and then halving my weight. Sometimes we seem to hit a calm patch and the motion stills. Trying to anticipate, or experience, even just notice what’s going on—that turns out to be a gear shift. All the whirling thoughts stop. I use a little-suspected organ in my brain (feels like it’s between my eyebrows, up and back) to do a bubble level of the world.

 

And boom—I’m back to sleep.

 

No odd banging noises. I’m so far into the bow that I can’t even hear the engines. It was perfect sleeping conditions.

 

When I woke (at five in the morning, but I’d fallen asleep at 9 last night, so that’s EIGHT HOURS IN A ROW!!), I could see that light was coming through my two deep-set portholes, but I couldn’t see anything until I got up and peered through…so that’s a disadvantage. Twig and Harry are up on deck five; their outer wall is one huge window with a sliding door to a small French balcony. That would be a considerably easier way to watch the scenery passing by… so I’ll be interested in hearing how much New York would charge me to move upstairs.

 

I found Twig and Harry in the observation lounge, in a thick cluster of early risers drawn by the higher specific gravity of the coffee machine. They were in a sort of mosh pit surrounding one alarmed guy who was attempting to set up the pre-breakfast breakfast, but he kept his head up and did not go under.

 

Twig and I walked around the deck, where I re-learned a lesson from Patagonia: Do not leave the cabin without a hair elastic at least on my wrist if not in my hair. Wow. Medusa has nothing on me after that stroll.

 

We found a rainbow.



Here is Twig at the rail, (unseen) coffee in hand, regarding the new morning. Then—oh, her gasp of delight!—Harry pointed out that there were copies of the daily puzzles from some newspaper in a neat folder on the wall. Twig is now emitting invisible waves of bliss.



We’re sailing past the same island we’ve been passing, but now the sun has blazed forth from the clouds that were so luminous earlier, and the dark silhouette of mountains is now draped in rich green, wrapping over the valleys and crevices that were hidden from view in the earlier light.

 

When we took the bus from the airport in Honiara yesterday, the tour guide said that there are more than 900 islands in the Solomon Islands, and only an estimated 20% have significant populations. The island we’re passing has been going on for a while now, and I saw on the nautical map that it’s a big hunk of land, so it’s hard to believe SOMEONE isn’t living there. Still, the place looks so wild and untamed that it’s not hard to think that maybe no one knows what’s going on in those hollows and valleys and peaks.

 

It's hard to truly get into the Captain Cook mindset while sitting a few feet away from a latte machine that has proven very popular this morning—but there’s no doubt that the first Europeans sailing this same passage saw pretty much the same thing I'm seeing now. There’s a wispy, gauzy connection there to those that came before. I’m not unaware that I’m attempting to see this seascape through colonizing eyes; Captain Cook wasn’t the first human in these waters by a long shot. But I understand the “what’s over THERE?” imperative of the European explorers. I’m feeling that way myself at the moment!

 

A note: I have not done a lick of research about which European brought their diseases and religions and attitudes about who owns what to this area. I use “Captain Cook” as a stand-in, and trust you won’t laugh too hard. Actually, the guide yesterday said it was a Spanish expedition that had a very strong early influence. The islands used to be named things like Santa Ana and Cristobel. The local population is shaking off this influence; the island we’re going to get to around noon today is now called Owaraha. (I suspect one is supposed to think of that word as owa-ra-hah, but I can only remember it by thinking "Oh. War. Aha!")

 

Honiara is on the island of Guadalcanal, and we landed at Henderson Field. These are names familiar to anyone who has studied the Pacific battles during World War II, which several of the people on our minibus clearly had. The guide kept up with impressive knowledge, pointing out the general direction of “Bloody Ridge” and whipping off the names of the Japanese commanders as easily as the American ones. Lindblad has brought along a guy who has written books about the Pacific battles—Ian Toll. I met him and his wife Patricia yesterday in awkward circumstances and they seemed very nice. But I am SO eager to overlook the bloodiness and misery of war. Sigh. And now we’ve put Guadalcanal far behind us without Ian Toll telling us anything at all. Hm.

 

Here's the stupid awkward meeting of Ian and Patricia: I got to the counter at Fiji Air to check into the flight to Honiara. Despite coming behind many fellow travelers wearing their obedient little Lindblad name badges, the man and woman at the counter were very confused that I didn’t have a ticket to show when I was leaving the Solomon Islands. I gave them my Lindblad information, which they paged through for long minutes, the lines of passengers mounting behind me with almost the same pressure as one sees around the latte machine.

 

In desperation, I looked around for one of the Lindblad naturalists who were shepherding us. There he was! One counter away! Damn it—what’s that guy’s name? Between me and the naturalist was The Expert On Guadalcanal and his wife, also talking to confused counter attendants. I caught their eye and pointed past them. “What’s his name?” I asked. “Is it Ian? Is that Ian right there?”

 

The Expert looked startled and then nodded. Oh, good.

 

“Ian!” I yelled. “Hey, Ian!”

 

Eventually the naturalist looked up and came to rescue me. Order was restored. As we were all leaving the check-in counter I stopped The Expert and his wife. “I’m sorry to have yelled at you,” I said. “I couldn’t remember Ian’s name.”

 

The Expert, really a very nice man, said “MY name is Ian. That guy’s name is Alex.”

 

“Oh, shit! I’m so sorry!”

 

“Not at all. This is my wife Patricia.”

 

“How do you do?”

 

The naturalist came over. “Everything good?”

 

“It’s all good, Alex. I couldn’t remember your name. I’m sorry.”

 

Alex blinked at me and we all regarded his name badge which clearly read “Jeff.”

 

“Oh. I mean Jeff.”

 

“Sure. The departure gates are just over there.”

 

Patricia and Ian and I had a moment of solidarity in confusion. But at least now I know the names of three people on the cruise. At least I think I do…

 

83 views1 comment

Recent Posts

See All

1 Comment


Tonya Lunguy
Tonya Lunguy
Oct 11, 2024

Oh my God! I'm laughing so hard! Luke🤣🤣🤣

Like
poison_flowers.png

© 2020 by Pru Warren. Proudly created with Wix.com

​FOLLOW ME

  • BookBub
  • Facebook Social Icon
  • Instagram
bottom of page