Diane Lowman - Nothing But Blue: A Memoir

Nothing But Blue

Copyright 2018 by Diane Lowman

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

Published November 13, 2018
Printed in the United States of America
Print ISBN: 978-1-63152-402-8
E-ISBN: 978-1-63152-417-2
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018942327

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She Writes Press
1563 Solano Ave #546
Berkeley, CA 94707

Interior design by Tabitha Lahr

She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.

Names and identifying characteristics have been changed to protect the privacy of certain individuals.

For Devon and Dustin, my best work ever. For my mom and dad, who I wish could have seen it.

There comes a time in a mans life when he hears the call of the sea. If the man has a brain in his head, he will hang up the phone immediately.

Dave Barry

I walked up what I could only describe as a gangplank. A group of men in grimy coveralls hung over the ships railing watching me ascend as they waited for the ashes from their cigarettes to fall. What, they must have been thinking, the hell? I could not even look back at my parents, as Id had no idea what I was getting into until we arrived. By then it was too late to turn and run back to the safety of suburbia.

This German container ship would be my home for the next ten weeks. My cabin sat just below the bridge, right next to the captains quarters. I later learned that I had unintentionally usurped it from one of the officers, probably the very one who had ushered us into it and then disappeared. The captain wanted me close to him. For my safety. It had more floor space than my dorm room. My parents flanked me as we tried to take it in, along with its implications. Small talk ensued as we walked around each other and tried out all the seating options like a triad of Goldilocks in an awkward game of musical chairs.

The cabin is so big! said my mom.

I wonder what theyll have you do, said my dad. For as long as I could remember, he had me do boy stuff. The elder of two daughters, I was his son. I mowed the lawn and raked leaves, embarrassed when my friends would ride by on their bikes on their way to town for Coke and fries at the Woolworths counter, and see me, sweaty, hair back in a red bandana. He bought me Hot Wheels cars and took me to baseball games and taught me to keep score. Maybe that training would stand me in good stead in this sea of men, but I doubted that he saw the upside now as he considered the tasks this crew might assign me.

After some more strained conversation, there was not much to say to each other except goodbye, and we promised to write. We would not see each other for more than two months. I hugged them both very tightly, squeezing back tears. I did not want them to worry about me, but neither did I want to let go of my parents, my anchors. Id only be able to receive mail periodically from the shipping agent in each port, and would be lucky if an occasional ship-to-shore call went through.

There was none of the fanfare associated with the good old days of luxury-liner sendoffs. No streamers or champagne. I did not wave from the deck, wrapped in a fox-trimmed coat, at relatives on the shore, excited to make friends with my fellow travelers over caviar in the dining room. In fact, it had begun to dawn on me that I had no idea what parallel universe I had chosen to enter. I walked my parents back to the gangplank and watched them descend, with the ghosts of the crewmembers hovering above me and murky, bottomless, black water below.

We smiled, and I tried not to cry. I tried even harder not to acknowledge the message in my fathers eyes. I did not think this was what he had envisioned, or that he could conceive of leaving his nineteen-year-old daughter with these thirty-two German men in, what to him, must have seemed like a black hole, for ten weeks. But there wasnt a thing he could do about it. I could hardly bear to look at him. I read, I am scared, I am sorry, I am worried in his eyes. Like Peter Pan leaving Wendy with Captain Hook and the pirates, I watched them until I could no longer see them and then turned slowly to go back inside, hoping I could find my way back to my cabin. Eerie quiet followed me as I retraced my steps through the empty hallways. I passed only one young but haggard-looking woman heading outId later learn that prostitutes came on board at every portand locked the cabin door. Without a clue what I was supposed to be doing, I felt neither brave nor adventurous. I had just wanted to get the hell out of suburban Dodge for the summer, and hadnt given a great deal of thought to where I was headed instead. Testing out the blue coverlet on my new twin-sized bed, I stared out the large rectangular porthole, and wondered, Whats next?

This had all started about a month before, when my dad had asked, Do you want to work on a ship this summer?

I stood at the end of the hallway at the pay phone, at the end of my sophomore year at Middlebury College, in the pastoral Green Mountains of Vermont. I called my parents collect every Sunday at the appointed time, just after Id woken up. They declined the chargesour clever signal for Im awake and standing near the public phone blocking it so no one else can use it. Id hang up, feigning disappointment and indignation for the poor operator who had to go through this charade every Sunday around this time. My parents, on separate phone extensions, then called back.

Do you want to work on a ship this summer? my dad asked, as if he were inquiring about the weather.

Excuse me? Id barely thought about summer. I supposed I would most likely work at Sight n Style, my uncles eyeglass store in Brooklyn, where Id worked prior to starting at Middlebury. Or maybe at Roy Rogers in my hometown of Westfield, New Jersey, where Id donned polyester western garb to meet and greet fast-food aficionados during high school.

I immediately imagined myself as the cruises social director in nautical short-shorts, limbs slathered with baby oil. Id roam sun-filled decks encouraging happy passengers to play shuffleboard and consume large tropical drinks, and Id emcee the belly flop contest. That would beat either the commute to Brooklyn or the disgusting smell of rancid french fry oil that I could never get out of my uniform.

Sign me up! Im on board! Awful pun most sincerely intended. When do I sail? Where does the ship go?

Dad interrupted my reverie, telling me that Ted Williams, our neighbor, was the New York agent for a large German shipping company. Hed recently asked my dad if I might be interested in spending the summer on a ship. He had some pull with the company. They would let me work on board.

Okay! A German cruise ship. So, Europe?

Are you kidding me? Thats amazing! Where does it go?

Well, said Dad, sounding as if he has a special secret to share, Thats the interesting part!

Interesting? Coming from a parent that usually means bad. Hamburg-Sd runs container ships.

Container? Like tropical drink containers?