Tuesday, April 19: At Sea

No matter when I go to bed, I always somehow manage to wake up a half an hour or so before the sunrise. I love that time in the morning, when the crowd is still asleep and I share the decks only with the squeegee boys cleaning the decks of water and a very occasional early morning walker. Yesterday, the sea was so calm the only breeze was created by the forward motion of the ship, and the sea and sky, the same color of bluish grey, were separated by a band of low-lying black clourds just beginning to turn pink. As the sun climbs up out of the horizon, the clouds turn fiery fuschia. It's easy to see why so many civilizations worshipped the sun (as do the many passengers, later, collapsed in it, arms and legs spread out, faces tilted to the clearest tan, obvious evidence of their complete, and dangerous, devotion).

Although my shins have turned a raw and violent red, it's not from sun because they're never exposed, but instead from a circulatory issue I first experienced on a trip to Berlin some years ago. The blood pools in the extremities and bleeds into the soft tissues of the skin, resulting in dark black spots, its own ugly evidence. I will have to see my doctor once I get home. Bill, who has recently survived a minor stroke, now takes his blood pressure every day and, offering to take mine, found it very high (over 190). A day at sea between each port has provided rest for my legs, which I try to remember to keep elevated as much as possible.

My malady, whatever it is, is minor in comparison to those passengers trembling along on canes, or walkers of wheelchairs. One with a more subtle but still obvious affliction, is a 60-ish birdy-looking smallish woman, with eagle eyes and wild white hair, whom I first encountered at the beginning solo cocktail party where she was sitting at a table that held her drink, which she was punishing violently by jamming her cocktail stirrer up and down in it as though to make it foam. Some of it was spilling out onto the table, her blouse and the floor, but she seemed not to notice in her singlular concentration on my face. We see her often now, by the pool, in the dining room, usually inappropriately dressed and despite the heat, wrapped in a plaid blanket, and from her often angry, and even violent behaviour we've concluded that she's probably in the angry stage of Alzheimer's. I can't help but wonder what guardian - a son or daughter, or an attorney for her estate - sent her off on this cruise. The crew is very helpful and protective (she's rumored to be a continuing and long-time guest) but still....How sad.

We spent the day quietly - I finished Stephen King; enough of him for another ten years - Bingo and a canasta lesson, which Bill has decided he doesn't love. Formal dinner and a show by a young tenor, Aaron Shaw, with a big, opera-quality voice and pleasant patter about his burgeoning careet.

Tomorrow the Panama Canal.

Stay tuned.