The sea comes alive with light
Cruise ships are divorced from the reality of life on land, and the passengers take full advantage of their freedom to do what they want.
Shots off the starboard bow at dusk, the captain rosy-red like the sunset sky. The sound of drums carried over the steady grumble of the engines, and lights flickered over the stark white paint of the ship’s sides. The crush of people swirled like the sapphire waves below. Sparkling wine flowed freely – everyone knew fresh water was limited on a ship, so alcohol was the responsible choice to preserve rations.
Far above the deck, fairy lights watered the sprinkle of stars overhead down to a faint glow, rendering them useless for navigation. Luckily, especially since the captain was ‘mingling’ – i.e. on her twelfth tequila shot – autopilot took care of almost everything. A few crew were still required to man the bridge, and they gambled as they shared a plate of cold cuts and sliced cheeses the first mate had liberated from the galley at great personal risk. Cook was on the warpath, furious about someone pinching four litres of strawberry frosting (the janitorial staff were destined to share his fury when they cleaned room 536).
The three bridge crew played ‘spot the hangover’, which could also be combined with ‘spot the post-coital regret’ and ‘spot the food-based accident’, wagering hours on-shift as stakes. A passenger dressed head-to-toe in a creamy suit, white shoes and a pale bowler hat for reasons only known to himself, was the current favourite for hangover and food. No-one was willing to put shift-hours on his post-coital chances.
On deck, the quoits contest had taken a sharp turn for the worse around the time the cocktails came out – the normal course of treachery, backstabbing and bruises occasioned by ‘accidental’ misthrows had escalated. Someone had nicked the jack and now the contestants were using the flagpole as an alternative. Attempts to restore order had resulted in conflict, and the luckless officiator was now part of the game. Players could score five points for getting a hoop over his ear, ten if they could land it on his head. He was hiding now in the bathrooms while packs of determined, tipsy pensioners scoured the ship.
Below decks was quieter – the revellers hadn’t made their way downstairs for the most part, although somewhere towards the engine rooms, where people didn’t often go, there came the stamp of drunk feet trying to achieve stealth. It was further undercut by the attached heads giggling loudly. Hands, between the heads and the feet, were everywhere else – under shirts, up skirts, against skin. Crew members turned a blind eye and switched lights on with ruthless apathy – startled shrieks didn’t invalidate the need to see what buttons they were pressing.
Eventually, night wound down and dawn crested the horizon, restoring colour and sobriety to the world – some of it unrequested, in cases where curtains had not been closed on cabin windows, and there was a sudden rush on water and electrolyte tablets. A reserved hush hung over the ship, until the sun began its slow descent and shots once more echoed off the tabletops.
