Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
reeferman,” which is an enviably hip job title.) Otherwise, the contents of all those sealed boxes are a total
mystery. They could be blue jeans. They could be antique cars. They could be scrap metal. Since the ship's
previous stop was in Richmond, Virginia, it seems a decent bet there are tobacco products on board, but we
can't know for sure. Freighter crews don't open the containers and don't ask questions. They just try to get
the stuff there on time.
From the superstructure, Gregorio leads us on a walk to the bow. The ship is 550 feet long, so it takes
us a while to get there. We walk down a narrow corridor between the ship's railing and the edge of the
container stacks. The metal joints of the stacks groan as they shift with the rolling waves.
At last we reach a small open deck, about the size of a squash court, nestled at the front of the ship.
It's called the “forecastle,” and—for obscure nautical reasons—it's pronounced “folk-sul” and spelled
“fo'c'sle.” Here, at the pointy prow of the freighter, you have unobstructed ocean views to the front and
the sides. You also have total privacy: No one in the superstructure can see you, because the tall container
stacks looming behind you block the sight line. You're far enough from the engine that all you hear is the
sound of the ship's hull slapping through the water.
“This is where I'm going to hang out,” declares Rebecca. We expect to spend lots of time here, accom-
panied by suntan lotion, books, and binoculars.
AS we learn on our first day at sea, there's not much to do aboard a cargo freighter. No TV. No Internet. No
restaurants, no bars, no fitness centers. No cliques of passengers to meet or planned activities to join.
There is, however, a lot of peace and silence. We'd grown used to the noisy bustle of our D.C. lives—cell
phone calls, television blather, honking rush hour traffic on the streets outside our apartment. The quiet we
experience lounging on the fo'c'sle is almost startling.
The isolation of the ship is also a very welcome data detox. I can't remember the last time, before today,
that I went more than a few waking hours without checking my e-mail. Rebecca and I and everyone we
know are all addicted to the constant flow of data and chatter. But after one afternoon out here on the
freighter, I find I couldn't care less what's piling up in my in-box or streaming across my favorite websites
and blogs. What does it matter? It suddenly seems so trifling set against the ancient silence of the ocean.
As for a social life, we have none. Our main human interaction comes at our thrice-daily meals with
Frank and Daphne. (The crew eats at a separate table, and often on a different schedule.) Though they are
delightful people, Frank and Daphne are not exactly in our peer group. We sometimes find ourselves strug-
gling to converse across the generational divide.
During the day, when we're not at meals, Rebecca and I read in adjacent plastic deck chairs in the sun.
When we want a break from our topics, we stroll around the open-air parts of the ship—scouting with our
binoculars for seabirds and maybe dolphins or whales. We've had no luck so far spotting ocean mammals,
but hopes remain high.
At night, we put on sweaters and brave the salty evening chill. The stars twinkle against a pitch-black
sky. No city lights here to turn the atmosphere milky.
We get our sea legs after the first day and become accustomed to the ship's slow, steady roll. It's won-
derful to be rocked to sleep by it. It's so constant and powerful, it even seeps into our dreams. Rebecca
keeps having this nightmare that she's back in her law firm's office tower and the building is undulating as
though it's in an earthquake. File drawers rolling open. Casebooks spilling off shelves.
Then she wakes up and remembers that she left all those things behind.
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