Philadelphia to Antwerp - Grounded: A Down to Earth Journey Around the World - page 10

Instead she just paces antsily around the deck, carrying with her a small tote bag that holds her only di-
versions. First, she pulls out her shortwave radio and waggles the antenna around searching for BBC World
Service. (No dice.) Then she consults her GPS. (Yup, still in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.) Back to the
radio. (Nothing but static.) In frustration, she resorts to teaching herself the Cyrillic alphabet from a book
she brought along, preparing for our eventual arrival in Russia.
I stave off boredom by hanging out on the bridge as much as possible, peppering Rikus with questions.
He's a sharp, thoughtful guy and seems eager for the company. He's also intrigued by our mission to cir-
cumnavigate the earth. Even the captains and officers on most round-the-world freighter routes have never
actually circumnavigated in one go, as they usually swap out and fly home for a break before the ship com-
pletes the full circle.
With nothing to do in this fog but listen for radar blips that aren't blipping, Rikus helps me identify the
whale Rebecca and I spotted a few days ago. We use a Greenpeace reference guide that's kept on the bridge
in case the ship needs to report a collision with an animal. Based on silhouettes, I determine that what we
saw was almost certainly a right whale—so named because early whalers deemed it the “right” whale to
hunt, since it conveniently floated to the surface after being speared. (If this were 1730, the Grand Banks
would have been swarming with whaling ships, and we'd have been sighting our mammal buddy down the
shaft of a harpoon instead of through binoculars.)
Rikus also lets me leaf through the various operations manuals in the ship's library. I'm fascinated by
the procedures recommended in the event of a lifeboat evacuation. The manual advises the captain to, early
on, order everybody in the lifeboat to urinate over the side. Apparently, the stress and lack of privacy in the
craft can build up and make some folks unable to go. Which, as you can imagine, becomes an awkward
health issue. Though only slightly more awkward than having someone command you to pee before his
eyes.
Our other friend on the crew, Witold the electrician, has also made efforts to alleviate our boredom. On
a lazy afternoon, seeing that we're running out of ways to occupy ourselves, he invites Rebecca and me
to his cabin to peruse his personal DVD collection. “Borrow as myenny as you like,” he says, opening his
door and ushering us in.
His cabin is tidy and compact, much smaller than ours, with a nice view of the fog. The cabin smells of
Witold, which takes a moment to adjust to. But the most arresting aspect of the room is what's Scotch-taped
to its walls. Upon them are arrayed at least nine or ten pinups of topless women, gazing out at us lustily
from every angle.
I should note that these women are not just topless. They are top-heavy. To a comical degree. We're talk-
ing major bazooms. “I'm feeling a little inadequate,” Rebecca whispers in my ear as Witold digs out his
DVD collection.
None of us mentions the nudie shots aloud. Instead, having opened up his DVD album on his desk, Wit-
old pauses to point at a different pinup photo on the wall, directly above his workspace. “Thees my daugh-
ter,” he says with a proud smile. We follow his eyes to a snapshot of a plump, red-cheeked young woman.
To our tremendous relief, she is clothed.
Aside from the odd fact that his daughter's photo is the only non-pornographic image in his cabin, and
that her smiling face is flanked on either side by bulging bosoms, there's no denying Witold's affection
for his kid. Beaming, he tells us that she's twenty-eight and is working in England right now. Later in the
trip, when the ship docks in Liverpool for a couple of hours, she'll be meeting up with her dad for dinner.
Witold, like many freighter workers, goes to sea for four months at a time, so he relishes even the briefest
opportunity to see his family. On the wall next to the photo, just to the left of a set of boobs, he's taped up a
calendar marking the days until he can return home to the town where he lives, an hour outside of Warsaw.