Bubbles Always Rise

There is a wisdom that is woe; but there is a woe that is madness.

Herman Melville, Moby Dick

People will seek me out at parties, especially those heading out to sea, and they’ll ask for ocean-going advice, like “how do I not do what you do?” or “what workout routine is responsible for your shapely sea-legs?” or “how many albatrosses did you have to run-down with your jet-ski to give you shit-for-luck?” All valid questions. Perhaps misinformed, but valid. 

When my shit-for-luck reputation is referenced, I like to counter with, “is it bad luck I got lost at sea?, or!… is it good luck I had the knowledge to survive until the U.S. Coast Guard could rescue me?”  

You see, statistically speaking, we all get it in the end. Some of us just get it from the start. What’s important is not avoiding the inevitable rough seas, but knowing how to navigate them. And everything I know about the sea I learned from my father, the late-great mustachioed maestro of the tides, Rodrigo Neverman. 

One lesson which comes to mind at present is…

Don’t be the Last Rat on the Ship

It is last call at Davy Jones’ Locker-Room Sports Bar on the 7th level of the MS Neptune’s Wrath. The rats have already started to flee. Other than me, the only sign of life is Bradford Adams, GMF. My mother-in-law is here too, but she’s slumbering in her wheelchair after taking down two margaritas in quick succession. Bradford Adams, GMF, suggests one last beer. I look at my watch, I look at my mother-in-law, I look at my nearly empty pint glass. Now would be the time to jump ship. Don’t be the last rat, my old man would say. 

Okay, maybe one more…

Bradford Adams, GMF, orders another round of Kalik to wash down the last round of Kalik. Recently a stranger to me, this Bradford Adams, GMF, is slurring tales of past voyages. Despite having traveled on hundreds of cruises, Bradford does not speak kindly of the industry. We discuss transatlantic cruises full of rich & evil white men traveling to Amsterdam for the sole purpose of meeting their sedated Eastern European mail-order brides to bring back home. Did you know?, I ask, submarines will up-periscope next to a cruise ship and search the balconies for copulating couples? One of His Majesty’s Royal submariners told me about the annual Christmas party where they award their favorite performances. Kinky!, Bradford says. Speaking of kink, you ever think about all the piss & shit these ships dump for the dolphins to swim & frolic in our wake?

Not something I wish to dwell on, yet a nice segue to something my father frequently said…

Don’t Piss into the Wind

Life is about posture. Direction. Being aware of your surroundings. As I had to remind myself earlier tonight while gazing out over the ocean from my 9th level balcony. A breathtaking sight. Serene. But it left me vulnerable with my back turned towards the honeymoon suite where the morally ambiguous Josefina was in a homicide-curious state. One quick nudge from her and I’d be done for. From chump to chum in fifteen seconds. Josefina’s defense attorney might argue my demise was a “crime of passion”, but what would I care if my murder was premeditated or silly whimsy when I’m the dead one?

So yeah, don’t piss into the wind can mean many things, chief among them: don’t leave yourself unguarded on the edge with a scorned woman behind you. 

What’s unfortunate is this time Josefina’s scorn wasn’t even directed at me! Still, there was no reasoning with her when she’s wearing those shoes. As I’ve learned…

You Can’t Fight the Current

If the tide is ripping you out to sea, do not swim directly against it. Instead, my dad advised, try to swim parallel to shore, using the current to propel you until you find a path of less resistance. 

Working within the current is how I wound-up taking my mother-in-law, Fernanda, to the margarita tasting tonight instead of Josefina. That was not my plan. When earlier I returned safely from the balcony, Jo refused my suggestion we drop mama off at the slots and proceed to the margarita bar. She did not want to go out tonight. But I already have the tickets, I reminded her. Jo told me to take her mother instead. Your mom?!, I asked with a little too much squeal in my voice. Jo’s head pivoted like a lioness who smelled a gazelle fart a hundred yards away. What’s wrong with taking my mom?, she inquired. Nothing!, I insisted. And fast-thinking parallel-shore-swimmer I am, I redirected my question to: I thought you didn’t want your mother to drink? Especially tequila?

I don’t care, Jo said. Let her drink all she wants. If she rolls off the ship into the ocean, fine. Fine?, I asked, can I get that in writing? Jo said, just go. Now. Vic, go. Take her. Take her anywhere but here. 

Was this feud between mother & daughter unexpected? Hardly. If Vegas put odds on over/under number of vacation days before Josefina & Fernanda began to argue, I would have taken the under. When we booked this trip for the three of us, Jo’s priority was wheelchair accessibility for her mother. Naturally. My priority was finding the largest fucking passenger ship on the goddamn planet. Here’s the problem: there ain’t no boat on earth big enough for both Jo & Nanda to peacefully coexist. 

Ergo: my mother-in-law is my date tonight. Nanda was in a great mood, as she always is when she has her daughter in submission. Nanda & I, fortunately, have always gotten along. Her English is as lean as my Spanish which somehow leads to fewer disagreements. As we rode the elevator to the 7th floor, Nanda’s close-cropped hair-doo dyed henna red did bring to mind another Neverman warning…

Redheads Are Trouble

We Neverman men live for a good time, but not a long time. Our limited longevity is what makes us foolhardy adventurers. Or perhaps our foolhardy adventuring is what limits our longevity. Either way, Rodrigo wasn’t long for this world and there was only one occasion when the two of us were inebriated in each other’s company. Key West. My dad and his two fishing buddies had been drinking all day. When we arrived at a next bar, the waitress brought the ordered pitcher to the table and filled four cups with beer. No one stopped me and I soon became as tipsy as my old man. The most emphatic note from the resulting conversation? My father advising me to stay away from redheads. It wasn’t until later I learned it wasn’t personal prejudice on his part as much as it was a rule of the sea for as long as there have been sailors. Or redheads. In Karnak, I once saw an Egyptian hieroglyph warning against bringing a redhead aboard your felucca. This has always been a thing. 

Redhead avoidance is wisdom which would have served me well… had I ever followed it.

For those keeping score at home, yes, Josefina was tinting her dark hair red when we first met. Did my father roll in his grave? No! Because his ashes were scattered out to sea (where else?). When my buddy Tusk met Jo for the first time, he reminded me of my father’s warning. I told Tusk, if the ghost of my father took one look at Josefina, he’d make a redhead exception. Tusk said, whelp, just know this woman will be the end of you, Vic. I replied, I gotta go out some how. What better way than death by Josefina?

Preferably not tonight. 

Since booking this cruise, I’ve been plagued with the nagging suspicion Jo is setting me up. A theater major at Columbia, Jo does like her dramatic exits. How many times has she demanded to speak to the captain upon disembarking a plane?, just to joke “next round at TGIFridays is on you!”, leaving me to humbly offer an apologetic smile to the offended pilot as we walk past? Okay, it only happened once. But the girl loves a stage. And a quality exit. You see: Josefina would never simply leave me. No. When she’s done with us as an “us”, she’ll fake her own death and frame me for murder. Guaranteed. Professor Plum’s DNA is all over the candlestick in the library, right where Jo planted it. She’s clever; she’s bound to have an off-shore account in Panama which will collect the life insurance policy she put on herself. And then she’ll watch from a faraway villa as the maritime courts try me for murder-at-sea. Is tonight the night her plan is pushed into motion? Perhaps quite literally…?

At least I will have an alibi in Nanda. Unless!, unless!, unless Jo is framing us both. Which’d be classic Josefina! Imagine the teaser on Dateline, 48 Hours, Nancy Grace: “a Mexican-American woman dead; Florida man and his Salvadoran mother-in-law arrested on charges of conspiracy to murder.” Jo’s likely already got the corn in the popper. 

Am I playing right into her trap? Perhaps. There’s only one way to find out. The trick is not allowing a disaster become more disastrous. Or as my dad said every time I flipped a canoe…

Don’t Let Go Of Your Oar

Climbing back into the canoe without your oar leaves you wet & impotent & rudderless. This lesson would save my life when my buddy Tusk & I went white water rafting on the Chatooga River. At the very dangerous Bull Sluice rapids, Tusk knocked me out of the raft* and I got sucked into the hydraulics of the rushing water. Several people die in the very spot each year. Why did the sluice spit me out instead of keeping me eternally locked in its spin cycle? Because I held onto my oar. Just as instructed. My oar caught the rush of the water and ejected me from the hydraulics. 

*there wasn’t even a woman we were fighting over**

**at the time

The lesson here: if I do get framed for murder, don’t panic. Hold onto my oar. And if necessary…

Any Port In The Storm Will Do

Nanda & I arrived late to the crowded margarita tasting and after checking-in with the hostess, I steered Nanda’s wheelchair in the direction of the first vacant spot that could fit us both. At this table there were several women who were very welcoming, even if mystified at the odd couple: a stressed white dude & his jubilant bruja. Nanda took one look at the botoxed faces & sunburnt cleavage of these ladies and clamped the brakes on her wheelchair. No!, no Chito!, she told me while waving around an index finger, no con estos cerdos gordos!, mesa de las putas! Searching for an alternative table, Nanda pointed, mira!, mira Chito!, she said. I apologized to the women who appeared both insulted and frightened. Nanda did not apologize as I wheeled her away, she only offered them a be-gone wave, ya jodete. 

I never said she was a nice woman, only nice to me. That particular port in the storm would not do. Not for Nanda. She believes she is doing her daughter a favor by hexing every woman aboard this ship. In Nanda’s mind, every warm-blooded female of breeding age is out to seduce her son-in-law. While I do appreciate her confidence and, I mean, how can I argue with my mother-in-law’s logic?, Nanda is not helping anyone. Not when she whispers these delusional suspicions into Josefina’s earhole every time another woman enters the room. Mira, hija!, cuidado con esta seductora! It is no wonder Jo has trust issues. 

Estas chicas soy muy guapa, no?, Nanda asked me as I wheeled her to another port in the storm. It was a test. Ay güey!, no!, I said, those chicas are muy fea. Nanda cackled with approval. 

Our alternative table is where we met Bradford Adams, GMF. He had a well-trimmed beard covering a boyish face. His enthusiasm reeked of first-day-of-school-new-hair-cut vibes. Nanda did not particularly care for him. Especially when Bradford Adams, GMF, attempted to speak to her in slow & loud English. Ah, si, si!, she gave him an exaggerated smile, saying, pendejo! Yes, Bradford ignorantly agreed, mucho. 

The first flights of the margarita tasting were served. The traditional lime-flavored sugary garbage cup was to Nanda’s approval. Que rico!, she said, picante pero sabrosa. She raised her plastic cup in toast, cada quien se toma el mezcal que merece! Si mama, I said, agreeing that everyone is fated to the mezcal they deserve. If tequila falls under the same karmic laws, this margarita suggests I did something horribly wrong. Nanda gave equally high marks on the 2nd serving, a red-flavored fiasco with a strawberry. Minutes later, her chin sank to her chest and she began to snore. 

Feeling relief, I declined further margaritas and asked for a Bahaman beer. Watching the carbonated fizz of the freshly poured pint, I recalled another lesson from my dad…

Bubbles Always Rise

The old man prepared me for life underwater at a hotel pool, sinking me to the deep-end with his air-tank on my back, its regulator allowing me to breathe. I could look up and see him standing on the pool’s edge, his image distorted & shimmering through the surface of the water. When Holiday Inn escorted us off the premises, my dad told me the surface of the ocean will not always be so certain. There will be a time when you are so deep you will not be able to determine which way is up. You’ll look around, he told me, and every direction is the same shade of blue. No points of reference. Perhaps you will have a diving line to follow, but you won’t know which direction is the surface and which direction is the ocean floor. Do not panic. Take a deep breath. Exhale. And follow the bubbles. Bubbles always rise. 

After four mini-margs and a bottle of Kalik, Bradford Adams GMF’s secret rose to the surface. He confided in me he is a cruise ship critic in disguise. No wonder Nanda thought su pelo es estúpido. It’s a wig. Bradford Adams, GMF, began his career cruising the world as crew. He moved up the ranks to entertainment, serving as a DJ and karaoke emcee. Eventually, he got out from under the industry to make a career out of social media. His most popular posts are about crew-life, especially their sex lives. Bradford could repurpose advice I’ve heard often – not from my father, but my old pal Tusk…

Don’t Poke the Barracuda 

If you take a liking to one of the crew…, Bradford said. I shook my head, not interested. He continued his hypothetical, let’s say you hit it off with a laundress or a pool boy, do not bring them back to your cabin. The crew is not allowed in guest rooms and with all the security cameras, you’ll get them fired instantly. Besides, if they’re that sporting, they likely already have chlamydia or syphilis or herpes or some casserole dish of everything intermingling in one hidden mouth sore. The crew has their own bar for off-hours, but those off-hours get boring quick and a bored sailor is a horny sailor. And if your laundress invites you into her cabin down below, that’s no fun either. The quarters are cramped and know this: if there is a breach in the hull, the crew quarters will flood first and be sealed off to save the passengers above. You don’t want to be down there when that happens. 

Speaking of disaster!, Bradford Adams, GMF said gaily, these massive cruise ships are built so top heavy they are reliant on stabilizers to keep right-side up. If, for whatever reason, we run out of fuel or let’s say we get hit by an electromagnetic pulse from a solar flare or a Soviet satellite like in Golden Eye and we lose power, the stabilizers cannot keep us upright and we’ll flip. Poseidon Adventure level calamity, bro. Bradford Adams, GMF, then nodded to my sleeping mother-in-law and said, good luck helping her out.

Ha!, I laughed at Bradford. You’re wrong there, buddy. If this boat goes down, Nanda is the one person aboard I know will survive. Nothing can kill her. Bubbles always rise and so do immortal mothers-in-law. 

With the one last beer consumed, I decide it is time to be the next-to-last rat on the ship. I wish Bradford Adams, GMF, luck with whatever and prep Nanda’s wheelchair. There’s a wobble in my legs, despite the ship being steady. Those bullshit garbage margs have me disoriented. My dad would have said…

If You Feel Uneasy, Look to the Horizon

Sure, sure, but when it is midnight out at sea, there is little comfort in gazing into the distance. I find the wherewithal to continue onward, pushing Nanda’s wheelchair back to our cabins uncertain of what mayhem I will find there. Nanda is mumbling in her sleep, un barco… un barco del borachos… dios mio.

Jo is pretending to be asleep when I return. It isn’t until I slip into bed and turn out the lights before she stirs. Jo slides over and sniffs my neck for any signs of strange. She’s satisfied I only smell like a bar’s spill mat. She whispers to me, I was going to give you another fifteen minutes before I demanded to speak to the captain to have him form a search party. 

No need. No one’s lost at sea tonight.