What Goes Up Must Come Down

Back on the boat, it’s tea time. How very English. Every day at around 5 P.M. in the bar lounge, tea is served along with little sandwiches, desserts, or cookies. Well, it’s actually a buffet, a serve yourself affair, but the minute they see me come in, I’m ushered to a seat, and tea and goodies magically appear, courtesy of the waiters. Hey, this whole ankle thing is starting to work in my favour!

The ship offers fifty-two suites and rooms, and on this trip, other than us Canadians, there are mostly British and German guests. The British folk seem to have taken a fancy to me, chatting with me, asking how I’m doing, offering advice, and sharing stories of their own travel disasters. I suppose all this attention is due to me being rather conspicuous, bounding about on metal poles, huffing and puffing up and down the stairs. I’m a handy topic of conversation: the human equivalent of an intriguing coffee table book or an oil-on-canvas rendition of a giraffe wearing pyjamas. 

At first, I find this attention amusing, even somewhat flattering. Soon, however, it becomes a bit unsettling. The Brits, though a likeable and well-meaning group, have an information network worthy of the British Secret Service. It’s eerily fast and efficient. We’ve been on board for one day and it appears that every last one of them knows all about me, even the ones that I’ve never met. Total strangers have intimate knowledge of my ankle misadventure as well as the state of my bones. I know this because, during our first afternoon tea on board, one elderly lady comes up to me and pats me on the shoulder. I’ve never seen her before but she looks at me as if she’s known me all my life. In addition to an elaborate hat, she’s wearing a sympathetic but serious look that borders on the dire side.

“Dear, you’ll need to take it easy and drink lots of milk,” she says to me. “It’ll be good for preventing your screws from coming loose.” 

I’ve no idea how to respond to this. I just nod my head, smile, and hope she’s referring to the screws in my ankle and not some defective mental hardware.

Another lady, as unknown to me as the milk-endorsing madam, and of the same vintage, joins us to deliver more sobering advice. It all starts innocently enough with, “So tell me, how does one faint on an airplane? And in a restroom, no less?” 

I see that she’s been properly briefed by the Brit Spy Agency. 

“I’m cursed,” I reply with a straight face.

 “Well, you need to keep your leg above your head,” she advises.

“Will that remove the curse?” I ask, not knowing exactly how I could achieve the desired position, and maintain it, without injuring other body parts and looking like a right old twit.

“No, but that will help reduce the awful bruising and swelling.” 

In addition to the briefing, she has also been fitted with espionage accoutrements for X-ray vision since she can observe my swelled up purple ankle right through the cast and the thick bandages. 

“Plus,” she continues, “after all that travelling, this relaxing cruise will give you a nice break. . . Oh my, oh my, I can’t believe I just said that. I’m so sorry, your ankle, I didn’t mean break as in break. . .”

She stands there with a look of abject terror on her face, blithering on. Before I can stop laughing and put her at ease, a very important-looking gentleman—presumably the head spy—comes to her rescue. Together with the Milk Champion, they proceed to bombard me with more tips on mending broken bones. I gulp my cup of tea, gobble up my finger-sandwich, and using some feeble excuse, escape the MI6 Secret Service troop. 

I return to my cabin to hide until dinner. The bed looks inviting, so I decide to sit on it with pillows stacked up under my foot in an attempt to raise it above my head, as instructed. I manage a leg position in line with my chin—it’ll have to do—and turn on the television.

All of a sudden, my peripheral vision catches movement by the window.  I turn my head toward the window and see nothing. Most likely a bird, I tell myself when, out of nowhere, a small carpet passes by the window, going up, apparently on its way to the stratosphere. A magic carpet? Where’s Aladdin? Or has gravity suddenly reversed itself? A quick check of my position relative to my surroundings leads me to conclude that gravity still works as prescribed. I consider another angle: have I been sleeping and weaving carpets that are now escaping into the World of the Awake?

Intrigued, I move to the window to investigate this new phenomenon, just as the same carpet, course now reversed, plummets toward the water. The scene that unfolds outside my window is mesmerizing. Encircling our ship, as well as the other cruise ships, are small little rowboats, manned by two or three men. One man is rowing while his companions are busy launching up merchandise for sale to the guests lined up on the top deck of the big ships. 

As I watch this retail ballet, a colourful scarf flies by on its way to our sundeck. After a short delay, the scarf makes its free fall descent back to the rowboat. I hear a muffled conversation.  Soon afterwards, another scarf of a different colour repeats the upward journey. Expecting it to plunge back to the water, I see, instead, a small plastic bag, with money in it, drop down to the vendor. 

All kinds of articles make the up and down journey, and some of them end up in the water, as a man, on one of the boats, attempts to fish out a dripping wet something out of the river. It could be a large shawl or a small carpet. Either way, it’s soaked and will have to dry before doing more flights.

What happens if the buyer keeps the goods and doesn’t pay? Do the sellers then board the boat like pirates and extort payment? What if the seller gets squashed by an unwanted flying carpet returning to base? People will do many wild and wonderful things to earn a living, like this hazardous boat-to-boat merchandising. I guess making an honest living isn’t always without risk.

During dinner, the ship sails. We don’t actually feel any movement, but we can see through the windows that the landscape is moving. So, unless this is a group hallucination, we’re sailing. I had imagined that eating while watching the entire East Bank slide by would have goaded my brain into switching to seasickness mode. Instead, the whole meal is exceptionally enjoyable and nausea-free. 

After the gastronomically outstanding dinner, I retire to my suite and discover that someone has come in to turn down the bed, and during that process, has turned on all the lights. Drat! My bedtime preparations have just been extended by an unscheduled performance of the Marathon of Lights. 

My annoyance vanishes when I catch sight of the swan on my bed. A towel swan. Now that’s clever! The towel sculptures become even more intricate and daring as the cruise progresses. One evening, I find a towel man lying on the bed, wearing my hat (now why does he not look geeky?) and holding the TV remote. I assume it’s a man, since a woman would not be clutching the remove so tightly in her towel hand. 

Towel Man!

On other nights, I find a cobra, a crocodile eating my hat, and another remote clutching, hat-headed human. This time, however, it’s just a torso with a big head. Why the obsession with my hat? I do not know. But I do know that two can play at this game. An idea slowly takes shape in the dark recesses of my mind. I decide to put my scheme into action on the last day of the cruise, just before checking out.