The Dock of Despair

The boat is anchored offshore. To get to it, I have to ambulate on the floating dock. Why can’t they just build solid normal docks with normal wood and normal bolts like normal people? Why does everything have to float and sway and bob and bounce? This Carpet of Death is made up of hundreds of floating plastic cubes, all tied together, each piece bobbing and swaying at its own rhythm. I look in dismay at the hundred feet of pitching, rolling, and heaving plastic; the perverted creation of a fiendish mind. Swimming the English Channel would be easier, except that I’m not allowed to get my foot wet.

 Not knowing exactly how to get on this diabolical thing, I poke at it with a crutch, hoping against all odds to make it disappear. Instead, a gorgeous young Adonis appears next to me and offers to help me across. Hey hey! I whack the dock a few more times in an attempt to produce more apparitions, but it seems that one gorgeous young god is my quota for the day. 

I step on the dock. Adonis takes hold of my left arm. I quickly develop another routine: crutch, swing, and freeze in terror; crutch, swing, and swear like a sailor. 

The going is slow and horrifying. Everything is moving and swaying like a magnitude fifty-two earthquake. I try repeating my gangway mantra from the cruise ship. It’s not helping. Neither is Adonis. I’m sure he means well, but he’s more of a hindrance than anything. He’s standing beside me on the very edge of the dock, pulling on my arm as if that’s going to do anything other than throw me off balance. He’s not thinking that it’s attached to the rest of me and if he pulls too hard, the whole Marie and caboodle is going to topple over the side, my air cast becoming a floatation device against its will. 

By the time we reach the halfway point, I feel seasick and am ready to pummel Adonis with my crutch in an effort to make him stop saying, “Lady, it’s easy, don’t be scared.” I hate Adonis, I hate the boat, and I hate the man who invented plastic. I keep repeating that as my new mantra, over and over. 

By sheer strength of will, and because I have no other choice, I ultimately reach the dang boat. This had better be worth it. We better see giant moray eels attacking sharks, octopuses inking clouds of black goo, and hungry turtles eating whales. I’m in that kind of a mood, one which is not improved by the upcoming task of boarding the bobbing boat from the bobbing dock, both totally unsynchronized with each other. If you remember, esteemed reader, I’ve been in this position before, back on the Philae Island motorboat. This time, however, there is no kind soul extending a helpful hand. There’s just Adonis and me.  

Somehow, I have no idea how, I get in the boat. I suspect Adonis may have shoved me in, but in my relief at reaching the relative safety of the boat, I didn’t really notice. With the proverbial black cloud hovering over my head, I choose a seat and park my bottom in it for the next two hours. If only this cloud could generate lightning bolts, I’d hurl a few at Adonis. 

The boat departs and the sandy bottom of the beach gives way to the splendours of the reef. Contrary to my expectations, we don’t see any underwater carnage. Through the wide glass bottom, we see beautiful coral formations and colourful fish, including a stupid blue and yellow oddity which swims upside down and tries to eat the underside of the boat. 

We catch a glance of a moray eel, lurking amid coral branches. It just sits there, looking mean and nasty, a creature only its mother could find attractive. Below a pair of big buggy eyes, its mouth, edged with sharp fang-like teeth, seems wider than its entire face, and where you’d expect nostrils, as on a human face, there are these funny little tubes. It resembles a mix between a snake, a dragon, and a grade-school teacher I once had, especially the nostril tubes. 

Some people eat moray eels. I know because I’ve seen recipes for it. I don’t understand. How can such a malicious thing be comestible? No matter how much you cook or deep-fry it, or how much hummus you pile on top of it, it would still be like eating Evil Incarnate. I mentally revise my food rule and add evil foodstuffs to the list of non-consumables. 

We continue on and visit other regions of the reef, spying on the finned denizens of the deep, going about their daily glub-glub routines, swimming around the wide variety of coral, eating bits of lord knows what, and checking out the real estate for potential hiding places or sources of food. Of the different coral formations, there are big convoluted ones that look like brains, short stubby-fingered ones, others looking like lacy fans and even some that resemble round exploding fireworks. Life on the reef appears totally oblivious to us air-breathing peeping Toms. 

All, except the blue and yellow moron who’s still trying to sink us by eating his way into the boat through the glass. It’s quite laughable really. Now, if it were Quasimodo the Eel trying the same trick, it would be a different matter altogether. With those sharp teeth, massive jaw, and vicious disposition, I have no doubt that he could inflict major damage to the boat’s hull. 

Midway through the tour, the captain stops the boat and drops anchor. It’s time for a refreshment break. We sip our colas, and enjoy the wonderful view, both below and above the waterline. The deep sapphire blue sea, teeming with life, with the sun sparkling brilliantly on its surface, is a sight to behold. My mood has improved drastically. 

Only too quickly the tour ends, and we’re back at the Dock of Despair. Adonis the Useless is remarkably absent, probably hiding somewhere until I’ve left the boat, the beach, or the planet, for all I know. Another young man offers to help. I give him a dubious look, mentally debating if I should accept his offer, and in the end, I decide to take a chance with him. He’s not as handsome as Adonis, and therefore, he’s bound to be more useful. Yes, I know this way of thinking is not logical, but I need a reason to use an escort since I’ve decided that, should I tip over the side, I’m taking a hostage with me.

Swaying on the floating plastic cubes, I make my way, slowly and painstakingly, back to the shore, resigned to getting wet at one point or another. The task is made somewhat more difficult by the newly arrived tourists, sitting on the dock, their feet dangling in the surf, their butts (some of them rather large) taking up space on a surface that is already almost too narrow to accommodate me, my hostage, and Beatrice and Matilda. 

I know what you’re thinking. Who the heck are Beatrice and Matilda? Well, I’ve named the crutches. I figure that since they’ve shouldered so much of my burden this past fortnight, and especially today, they deserve to be recognized as more than just anonymous metal and plastic poles. They deserve to be recognized as individuals, as my active supporters in the quest for the Holy Grail.

Throughout the trip, they’ve never let me down, never complained when I threatened to use them as weapons, never even protested when I let them take the rap for the pinging sound of the safety pins on my cast, back on the cruise ship. They’ve been there for me all along. They must be acknowledged, honoured even. They deserve names.

Even now, as I try to manoeuvre around the butts on the dock, Matilda gives me permission to use her to poke the protruding bottoms in order to induce movement and clear some space. Beatrice, the more reserved and timid of the two, suggests trying the crab-walk first, before resorting to poking. I take Beatrice’s suggestion and proceed sideways, around the foot-dangling squatters who, by the way, seem completely indifferent to my predicament. If I weren’t so focussed on not getting launched into the wet blue scenery, I would have let Matilda have her fun, just for the sake of it.

Surprisingly enough, I reach the end of the dock without having taken an impromptu bath. My happiness at reaching the beach moisture-free quickly dissipates as I actually reach the beach. Oh crap! I’d almost forgotten the Beach of Torment. Just as I feel my sanity packing its bags and calling for a taxi, I spot a beacon of hope: a little hut-like structure sporting a beer sign, inviting me from across the Wretched Desert.

 Fixing my eyes on it, I sink, gorilla walk, yank on crutches, and repeat until I reach the beer sanctuary. Most people don’t equate beer brewing with Egypt, but throughout pharaonic history, beer and wine were staples of the Egyptians’ diet. Continuing the tradition, Egypt produces many brands of quite respectable beer. Sitting in a non-pitching, non-bobbing, and non-swaying chair, I enjoy a cold, smooth glass of Stella, Egypt’s most famous brand. I’m not usually a beer drinker, but after this afternoon’s taxing excursion, it’s like sipping nectar of the gods—Adonis not included. 

Fully restored, I spend the rest of the day lounging around the pool and removing the two metric tons of accumulated sand from my cast. There’s enough there to build a sand castle with turrets and dungeons should I be so inclined. I forgo erecting the castle, and instead, make a tiny human figure out of a couple of twigs, name it Adonis, and bury it in the pile of sand, feeling childish but vindicated.

When I arrive at the restaurant, the next morning, my wish has been granted and I’m greeted by the same young waiter from the day before. He seats me at a table, brings me some coffee, and swiftly disappears. Hoping that he’ll help me again with the hunting and gathering of the breakfast, I wait for him to come back so that we can browse the buffet in tandem. In the meantime, I try to decide what I’m in the mood to eat. Perhaps an omelette would be nice, or maybe cereal with a banana, or even some pancakes would certainly hit the spot. I see another patron walking back from the buffet with French toast on his plate. Yes, that’s it. I’ll have French toast. 

I mentally adjust the settings on my taste buds to French toast as I spot my young waiter coming back to my table. He’s smiling ear to ear, bearing a plate with one egg, two slices of toast, one banana, two pieces of melon, and a wedge of cheese; the exact same thing that I had yesterday. He has memorized my breakfast and is beaming with pride at the accomplishment. I’m dumbfounded. No one has ever memorized my food before. This must be a first in the history of buffets. In my mind, the French toast sprouts wings and flies away. Not wanting to squash Friendly Young Waiter’s enthusiasm, I smile, say thank you, and enjoy the breakfast. I’ll head him off at the pass tomorrow.