I have never suffered motion sickness in my life. I was particularly thankful for that this morning, as when I opened my eyes the room was swirling, the throbbing of cannibal drums signalling an impending attack. Frank was gone. Had they eaten him already? In a cold sweat I dashed up the hillside to breakfast.
The whole crew, including Frank, was already there. The waitress filled my coffee cup without even asking. Clara put her hand on my shoulder. “Feeling better this morning?”
“Not really — I was feeling pretty good last night.”
Everyone in the restaurant, including the staff, nodded and smirked. Uh-oh.
Frank sighed audibly, then smiled and asked “Ready for the cruise? We leave in an hour.”
“Sure, sure, no problem. A gallon of coffee and a side of bacon and I’ll be right as rain.” Continue reading 14. Emotion Sickness
We had just sat down for breakfast. I began my morning hand-waving exercises, trying to get the attention of any coffee-bearing person. Shirley arrived and pulled her chair in close, leaning over the table as if she had some state secret to share.
“Just after you left last night, this guy…” Her eyeballs rolled into their left corners as if to gesture at the man at a distant table, as far away as he could be and still be in the restaurant. He was white and woozy, slumped over an empty plate. His female companion sat across from him, unable to attract his gaze, regarding him as if she wished he were a bit farther away.
“This guy…” Shirley continued, “…walked into our cabin asking ‘Where’s the party?’ I told him ‘No party here!’, but it didn’t seem to register. Lucy got up, I could tell it was a fight or flight response and she was not about to fly, you know? She said something like ‘You’d best be getting along’, but he ignored her, too. Lucy doesn’t take well to feeling threatened or ignored. So, like, all hell is about to break loose when Aydell pokes his head around the divider. I guess he heard the commotion from next door. ‘Is there a problem here?’ he asks. The guy just says ‘Where’s the party?’ again, but this time he leaves.” Continue reading 13. Fit for Purpose
The roar of the rain was incentive enough to stay in bed well past noon. It was the best sleep I’d had in a week, much of which had been spent drunk. Every year the “silly season” lead-up to Christmas seems to get a little sillier, and 2014 was no exception. My work in the public service alone provided five career limiting opportunities in the form of Christmas parties — although in truth the only significant “career limiting” decision one makes in the public service is to join the public service.
There was the “Program” party, which entailed drinking with the people with whom I actually work. Then the “Branch” party mandated imbibing with the people who work with the people I actually work with, followed by the “Division” party obliging a touch of the tipple with the people who work with the people that work with the people I actually work with. The “Group” party dictated spirited festivities with distant colleagues I generally avoid. Finally the “Departmental” party was a tedious affair, swilling with the swells and the swine. Continue reading 12. Drinking in the Holiday Season
Christmas is a wonderful time of year to be a kid. I have few happier childhood memories than Christmas morning. Toys, candy, noise, laughter, food, surprises and a three-hour period when my older siblings were well enough distracted to not beat me up. Heaven.
Even the obligation of an afternoon visit to Snarky Grandma was not enough to take the shine off the day. Snarky Grandma incessantly commented on everybody else’s shortcomings, and she didn’t miss a thing. She would give a full accounting of each of us, citing the numerous debits and paltry credits in her ledger of righteousness. Her subtle yet incendiary verbal devices were a marvel to behold; genius, of a sort. Worst, she always gave us clothes for Christmas.
As compensation, the evening would include a visit with chain-smoking Salty Grandma who stretched credulity with lurid tales that would make the Brothers Grimm shudder. She spent much of her life on her boats, lending credibility to her sailor-like demeanour. From shooting skeet with Clark Gable, to piloting the largest oil tankers in the world, to proofreading an entire edition of Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary, she had done it all. Best, she knew exactly what kids of all ages want for Christmas: cash.
Continue reading 11. Dangerous Cargo
If you had told me thirty years ago that my fifty-fourth Christmas would be spent in Fiji, I would have been much better looking then. A very smart sister of mine once observed that if you aren’t happy with your looks at the age of twenty-four, you’ve got a rather difficult life ahead.
This is my third trip to Fiji, albeit my first Christmas spent here. It may seem an odd place to celebrate Christmas, but Christianity itself is riddled with such oddities. If the Brits can sings hymns declaring Jesus an Englishman, surely it is not a bridge too far to suggest he may have wintered here. Certainly the Fijians have become pretty good Christians, at least since they stopped eating one another. Continue reading 01. Fiji…Again?