Letter from a Sinking Ship

Dear Sudra,

It’s not what I expected. I’m on the top most deck of the Queen Anne II, sitting in a blue and white lounge chair and I’m thinking: I’ve always hated taking a shower in the morning.

I can’t tell you how strange it is to have this thought now when the ship is sinking. But there it is: morning showers have always been a little too fast for me; too much stimulation first thing in the morning. It seemed silly so I’ve tried to put the feeling aside. I would fantasize that I was enjoying the spray of a Caribbean waterfall. I tried to smell the perfume of ripening bananas. Or I would become the man who has just survived a perilous walk across the desert. Nothing worked.

Every morning, even earlier today, I’d step under the nozzle and grit my teeth. I know it sounds very old fashioned but no one, it seems to me, enjoys taking a nice, slow bath anymore and that is sad.

I remember that we were at Grandpa Ed’s house in Blairstown, NJ this past summer and you’re mother decided that it would be nice for us to take a family swim. Holding you in my arms, we looked down at water. I told you not to worry. “This is like a big bathtub.” You were barely 7-months and already you seemed to understand everything. I put you in some aqua-blue Huggie Swimmers that someone found in the house. I’m pretty sure the Swimmers were decorated with little sailors in lifeboats and cherub-faced policeman flying helicopters – I wouldn’t want to mislead you so I have to admit that I can’t remember all the details of your swimming pants at the moment – they might have been pink- and blue-baby Muppets. I’m not sure.

Anyway, after changing you on a lawn chair, I took you back to the pool. Your mother was already doing laps. She was anxious, I suppose, to enjoy the heated pool’s warm support. In any case, you were staring at the water and looking very excited to get your feet wet. Anticipating all of this (your mother in the pool, your love of new adventures, etc.), I’d gone ahead earlier and pulled whatever bugs and leaves I could from the water. Your mom is squeamish about such things and I think you would have eaten a bug or two. I saved an ant and a bee that were doing their best to find dry land; I saved a ladybug. That made me happy, Sudra.

Happier still: I pulled out a mouse that had fallen in and drowned against one side of the kidney-shaped pool. If your mother had seen that – or had even heard that a mouse had stuck its toe in the water – you would never have had your first swim. But I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t believe that it would hurt you. It was big pool and I had (still have!) great faith in your strength Sammy. Yes, there is also God’s reasonable protection against monolithic tragedies. Once I’d passed you into your mother’s arms you came alive. You kicked and kicked, you smiled and laughed and wiggled.

To everyone’s way of seeing it, you were a born-again amphibian.

“All of the other grandchildren screamed bloody murder.” Someone shouted out in their excitement.

“My God, yes” someone else said in agreement.
“Do you remember how Taylor had cried and cried; how Tina and Lillith had cried and cried!” Not you, my pride. (Oh, what would it have really mattered if you hadn’t liked the water? Nothing at all.)

You loved it and it was an inspiration see you. I can see you looking up; gums spread wide, two teeth sticking out and cheeks filled with brimstone fueling your legs and feet to kick and move you forward. You could do it. You knew you could do it and so I have decided that I can swim, too. This situation is not impossible and it’s not a shower after all. It will be a gentle bath until someone comes and scoop me out of the sea.

We are out between Cape Town and Tristan da Cunna, which is far west across the South Atlantic. Something has hit us or exploded on board. Regis, the wine steward, says it was some problem that started in the nightclub. I don’t care about the details myself but I wanted you to know what little I understood about what had happened. I took a bottle from him and emptied on deck. A few facts, or even near facts, may help to anchor you later.

Daddy has a plan: an old fashioned note in a bottle for you! For me, the reality of what has happened does not impress me nor matter. At best, the whole mess seems surreal and cruel. My reality: I would like to see you again and so I am going to try to succeed in that. That would be something. I would like to see you so much. A real miracle I’m sad to tell you. I fear when a ship like this goes down and down, it must pull us down with it.

I am chanting (Om Namah Shivaya).

God’s will. God’s strength.

God’s heart and spirit in all things.

All things are God.

Please, let my arms be to the sea like an insect’s wing to air.

I am going to swim out toward the last of the lifeboats. If word got out that the ship was in trouble, maybe a plane will scoop up some of us in the water first. Someone must be coming. I have to admit, I was angry. No one woke me up for a very long time. Then I was very frightened. I wanted to jump into the water and break my neck for being so stupid.

But then I saw a family that was also left behind and got involved with their fear and forgot my own. A little girl in the family still had green and silver sparkles on her face. She shared with me that her baby brother – luckily he escaped with another family – had had his second birthday party earlier that morning.

Finally, I saw that it couldn't have been personal that I was left behind. There wasn’t any time for “women and children first” morality. Here this little girl was, you see? If you were at the front of the mob and got a foot in a boat you got in. Rather than get trampled running for the last boat or two, I decided to seek another way out of this mess. I hope I made the right decision.

Correct decision or no, my heart is with you, Sudra. Remember that you are the embodiment of grace and light. Remember that I love you and love you.

I will always love you.

Love,

Daddy