Since we were scheduled to dock in Fort Lauderdale at 6:00 AM, I was up and on deck at 5:45. But there was no sun nor, in the east, any effort toward a sunrise. In the west, the lights of Fort Lauderdale dotted the distant horizon and Eberhardt, the hotel manager, was squishing his way around the wet deck in his regular morning jogging routine. In the distance, I could just see the ghostly form of another cruise ship ahead of us, its lights in straight lines along its decks, making its way into port, and I thought, as I so often do when I see an airplane in the sky, about all those people going home and what that means. “Going home,” the title of my book about my mother. Yes, I, too, was going home, moving along in an endless stream toward the future and going back, at the same time, to that other me, the one I left a month ago. My melancholy musing was interrupted by the lady from Ocean City who suddenly appeared beside me, bundled up, as always, in her cargo pants, her photographer’s vest and a floppy khaki hat, the strings hanging down around her chin, four or five cameras of various sizes and shapes all slung around her. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” she said.
I thought saying goodbye to those I’d met on the ship would be a simple process of a smile and a hug and a “when you come to Baltimore,” but I was surprised at the catch in my throat and the smarting of a tear or two when I parted from Libby and Lise and the Millers. And what, Phil, was that all about, I wondered? Had I grown to like them more than I knew? Did leaving them represent the universal separation from which I think we all suffer in life? Or was I simply sad at happiness? Poor Henry, I thought, sitting alone at breakfast with his western omelet, his A-1 sauce, his star ruby and his gold and diamonds, going on and on, from one cruise to the next, moving back and forth through the Panama Canal for the umpteenth time. What kind of life is that? In my suite, I looked around to be sure I hadn’t forgotten anything and left without even saying goodbye to Heinz, who was busy elsewhere on the ship, his shiny metal suitcase with yellow stripes (like a yellow-jacket) and his black leather coat on the floor beside his bed. How appropriate, I thought, with a slight pang of guilt at being rude.
All passengers had been asked to gather in the theater and only go ashore when their color, coded to their luggage tags, was called. But after a month (or more) of leisure ease, many reverted to their otherwise herd behavior and crowded the gangway, rushing to be among the first ashore. It was so confusing that the customs officials stopped the process, delaying the rest of us. While we were waiting, Loraine tried to entertain us by showing the morning news on the movie screen but the news was all bad and the information about the massive snow storm about to blanket the east coast only made everyone, including me, more eager to be on our way. And the sound was out of synch with the motion so the lips of the newscasters moved to words we were yet to hear. Not a good sign.
When I finally got ashore, I couldn’t find my luggage in the mass of bags in customs. I tried not to panic but it wasn’t a good omen. Finally, a porter helped me find them, tucked way in the back, in the wrong color area. I passed customs without having to open anything, the customs official saying to me, “Have a nice trip back to Baltimore, Mr. Cooper.” That touch of humanity was very welcome. I waved good bye to Merriella who, with her purchase on the ship of a $2700.00 Judith Lieber bag shaped like a triangle, was being held up while she paid the necessary taxes. In the bus to the airport, people got very impatient with the dispatcher who insisted on waiting “just a few minutes more” for the doctor and his wife who never did appear. And the bus driver instead of taking us to departures on the upper level insisted on taking us to arrivals at the bottom where there was mass confusion in the rain. He finally let us all out at one stop and we had to schlep our luggage half a mile to a check-in counter. A tired and desultory AirTran employee checked me in and, as expected, my luggage was overweight. I had to pay more for the extra bag and the extra weight than the price of my ticket. By then, I didn’t care. Just get me home please.
In the line for security check, I ran into Marilyn May, the ancient cabaret singer from the ship who, with her carefully coiffed hair and fake eyelashes, was on her way to Kansas City for yet another gig. She looked great for 81. And I let her know I thought she was an inspiration, in many, many ways. The flight was delayed and I just prayed it wouldn’t be cancelled because of snow. I toyed with the idea of taking an earlier flight but gave it up at the thought of having to be “voluntarily separated” from my luggage, which would mean going back to the airport in Baltimore to retrieve it once my regularly scheduled flight arrived. The airlines will now do anything to try to improve their bottom line. The two and a half hour flight seemed endless and it was very cold in the plane. Blankets, of course, are only available at an additional price. I’ve gone, I thought, from the sublime to the ridiculous. I was relieved to find Freedom Service waiting for me at BWI and I got home just in time to dump my luggage in the living room and rush off to Eddy’s for some groceries before the store closed. As so often happens when snow is forecast, the shelves were almost bare. I got the last of the eggs, one of the last quarts of milk and the very last loaf of bread. I really didn’t care what kind it was. Peanut butter covers a multitude of sins.
So. Now for the questions. Did I have a good time? Will I accept the invitation to join the world cruise? Would I do this again? But enough for today. Stay tuned, for the answers. Tomorrow.
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