Queenly

The supreme shipboard moment, long imagined and never even close to experienced, looked very much like a chaise lounge, with me in it, staring at the open sea, waiters stopping by now and then to freshen my tea, add an extra blanket to my lap or generally inquire after my good health and well-being.  And oddly, this moment never occurred aboard the Queen Mary 2. 

We came close, Marlou and I, to this sort of thing on the next-to-last day.  We had gone out on the deck, which is to say deck #7, the one that circumnavigates the entire ship, giving joggers a good third of a mile.  Actually, giving them considerably more, when one considers the wind resistance.  Built for the crossing of vast seas with fierce waves and battering breezes, the Queen Mary 2 easily adds its own nautical speed to that of an onrushing wind.  The effect on deck certainly gives pause to a rolling quadriplegic.  I have never felt that my 160 pounds, combined with my wheelchair's 200, could be slowed by wind.  But out on the deck, on that final Wednesday, the Atlantic breezes were blowing me backwards, or so it seemed.  The air was only about 62°, but the wind made it feel like 40. 

Reaching a favorite exercise spot on deck, I lifted myself to walk a few feet around an enclosed area where sturdy handrails made for a natural physiotherapy session.  I only got a few yards down the railing before turning back, for the breeze was fluttering my pant legs like sails, body shivering, balance faltering.  These conditions squelched my one shot at deck sitting, tea sipping, ocean staring.  There was too much breeze, although waiters kept coming by with hot mugs of consommé and there was every opportunity to do the deck chair thing.  But, inexplicably in almost a week aboard, there was too little time.

We had been at sea for a full day and a half when I discovered that the journey could be viewed on Channel 38 of our cabin's television.  A succession of screens displayed wind , temperature, ship's speed, miles elapsed, miles to go, while a thick red line showed our progress across the Atlantic.  "Honey, how come we're only at Newfoundland?" I asked Marlou.  She stared at me.  "Paul, it's a ship."

Good point.  There's a reason why Virgin Airways doesn't go 30 mph and the Queen Mary 2 does.  And since a ship moves slowly, passengers should get a chance to slow down.  But this was not the case.  In fact, being aboard the ship proved downright adrenal, high on frenzy, short on sleep.  It's not just that there were so many activities, although there were -- each day dawns with a six-page listing of lectures, concerts, plays, films, nautical instruction, cooking classes, book groups and miscellaneous sessions.  No, it's the inspiring nature of the ship itself.  It's arguably the world's largest and, arguments aside, the most powerful.  Go to the observation deck behind the bridge.  Or take the outside elevator to, say, the bar one level down, or the library several levels down, and take a high, wide look at the ever disappearing North Atlantic.  This crossing (no, it's not a cruise) included a first-time screening of a British documentary on the Apollo missions to the moon in the late 1960s and early 1970s.  The film is all about daring, imagination and lofty goals.  So is the QM2.

High spirits on the high seas.  Evenings in which music emanates from at least 10 distinct lounges, restaurants and theaters.  Some of the best music is on a smaller scale, with the feel of a good evening of piano jazz at the Algonquin Hotel in New York.  Class acts.  In many ways the ship is a class act itself.  Actually, the walkways are like a Cunard museum, with photos and text giving us endless perspectives on the history of passenger steamships.  Immigration, dining on board, life below decks, famous people who have sailed, caring for pets on board, navigation.  In short, the ship seems very conscious of its past.  Sometimes this is a problem.

The interior decor has a jumped up Art Deco feel about it.  Much of the time this works.  Some of the time, it doesn't.  The ship's cinema is most impressive, with aisles and entrance ways lined with statuary and decorations that suggest the 1930s but work perfectly well in 2007.  Of course, the fact that there is a film theatre at all astonishes me.  Sailing, sailing.  That's happening, moving over the ocean blue, while one sits and watches a film in total oblivion.  The same is true of the Royal Court Theatre adjacent, although the name makes me cringe.  The original one in Sloane Square, London, is so associated with playwrights such as John Osborne that I kept shaking my head in disbelief at the Ukrainian dancers doing Broadway routines with wireless microphones strapped to their heads -- that's what transpires in the Queen Mary 2's Royal Court.  Actually, it's a remarkable thrust stage venue for all kinds of performing artists, from the ship's Polish string quartet to recent graduates of London's Royal Academy of Dramatic Art who actually perform abbreviated plays.  A Midsummer Night's Dream in 55 Minutes.  Great Expectations in an hour-long version which, my own expectations being low, I missed.  But I had a go at a couple of the stage shows, the ship's band blaring in the background.  Spotlights, a revolving stage, ever changing scenery.  The production values are high, the Ukrainians' spirits are higher.  And the wages are low, throughout the ship, which did not give me a terribly good feeling.

Wretched excess.  Meal after meal with impeccable service, reasonably good -- certainly beautifully presented -- food, cabins cleaned and beds turned down, all toilets aboard mopped and polished several times a day.  And all this work is done by Filipinos, Eastern Europeans and other poorly paid hard-working people.  It's not just that they do the work, but that one is encouraged to forget about it.  We're supposed to be dining and sailing and gorging.  But for me, it was hard to forget about all the people working.  Marlou and I gave our cabin attendant and dining room waiter an extra tip.  I felt good about that.  The very act kept me conscious.

After all, who were we aboard the Queen Mary 2 but a bunch of middle-class people donning tuxedos and evening gowns to play at a life none of us really possessed?  The dinner table conversation ran to cruises we have known and places we have sailed.  Which got boring.  And things did not improve on the last night of formal dining when the kitchen staff went on a march.  I guess this is some sort of shipboard tradition.  Scores of chefs in chef hats, 72 waiters and an additional 72 busboys, not to mention assorted sous chefs actually go on a procession from the lower level of the dining room, up the sweeping staircase to the second level, and marching on to the third.  Why?  The reasons are unclear, and the effect was somewhat stupefying.  I'd been dining on the likes of pate of partridge liver for days, gotten used to plates that arrived with sauces dribbled in colored patterns and didn't really need to have a procession of cooks or Meistersingers or anyone rolling past my table.

What I needed was the library.  With windows cut into the ship's slanting bow that provided an overhanging view of the North Atlantic, it was one of the most exquisite book rooms I've ever seen.  In fact, the library -- with almost 10,000 books -- would have been the perfect refuge aboard the ship, if the place had been quiet.  Unfortunately, non-readers were always strolling in to have a look, people were struggling with the operation of the ship's personal computers, and the general noise level was persistent.  What to do but head back to the room?  Except that there were all these activities.  Who wanted to miss an afternoon lecture?  Or a concert?  Who wanted to just sit on the balcony of our room and watch the Atlantic roll by?

I wanted to before I boarded, and now after I'm on dry land.  At the time the ship seemed to demand exploration, and that's what Marlou and I did.  As though driven by unseen forces, from dawn to dusk we went about meandering.  Marlou claims she doesn't like exercise, but aboard the Queen Mary 2, she walked miles happily and without comment.  We discovered that lunch in the coffee bar is of manageable size, enjoyed in woodpaneled elegance and provides something bordering on a break.  This was about the only break we got.  We went and went, rolled and rolled up one deck, down another, then out another.

Because even when the entertainment wasn't interesting, the wheelchair-friendly ship was.  It is even possible to stand in an observation space behind the bridge and observe the navigation, steering and general management of the vast ocean liner.  It is also possible to roll a few feet out onto an adjoining deck that projects sideways, out from the hull -- the flying bridge -- and gaze forward into the onrushing Atlantic and backward along the ship's length...the equivalent of four football fields.  Sailing, sailing.  I never got used to it, never forgot it.  We were in the middle of the ocean, the largest thing on the planet, the thing that engenders life and frequently claims it.  The ship's captain let us know when we were passing close to the wreckage of the Titanic.  Much was made of safety, the usual lifeboat drill, and frequent reminders that for all the onboard folderol, cold water and silent depths were never far.  I liked that.  A reminder to me: It's a miracle to be crossing a vast ocean and simultaneously criticizing the tacky look of the proscenium arch in the ship's theater.

As for formal dining, two evenings surrounded by dinner jackets and evening gowns passed without incident.  I was glad that I didn't bother renting a tuxedo.  Nothing about the shipboard crowd seem to warrant the bother or expense.  Black bow tie, white shirt and black suit jacket did fine for me.  Still, something about the feverish excitement of being on board hummed like a guitar string long after the waiter had brought the absolute last post-dessert chocolate, coffee was done and our table mates had fled.  We fled too.  Our suburban lives in Menlo Park are so routine and stodgy that getting home from chorus practice at 10 p.m. feels like a wild night, what with the toothbrushing and teakettle filling before going to bed.  But here, high spirits upon the high seas, Marlou and I headed straight for the ballroom.  In fact, earlier Marlou had even participated in cha-cha lessons.  A dancing partner?  The ship has a professional retinue on board, the "gentlemen escorts," 10 or so elderly men in white jackets whose job it is to dance with the many single, and frequently older, women passengers. 

While the band played vintage material from Tommy Dorsey to Sting, Marlou and I found a table at the edge of the dance floor.  I knew that I had to do.  I knew this black-and-white evening meant a lot to Marlou.  And in some different way, it mattered to me.  Just that we were here, alive and together.  And it had taken 60 years for me to get here, and something similar could be said of everyone else.  Marlou didn't need a gentleman escort right now, for I could stand up from my wheelchair, hold her in my arms and dance the dance of the paralyzed.  The latter involves rocking back and forth, swaying with the music and keeping the backs of my thighs in fairly constant contact with the edge of the wheelchair cushion, just for neuromuscular orientation.  The ship was swaying too, very slightly, and one needed to be careful.  But not too careful.  Not too full of care about who was watching and whether or not I made a quadriplegic spectacle of myself...pathetic in my efforts...grotesque in my failings.  So, that sort of care would have to go away.  What I cared about right now was Marlou and me and Marlou, us, the couple.  And we deserved a dance.  So, I was up and swaying and part of the dance floor action, and I had no capacity for the cha-cha and I had no regrets.

Good to hear from the liner's third officers the next morning, giving a presentation on the technical virtues of the Queen Mary 2.  The thing has a double strength hull, 50% more engine power than any other passenger ship afloat, and most impressive stabilizers.  The latter function like ailerons on an aircraft, controlled by gyroscopes and instantly responding to the slightest rocking and tilting.  When the ship tilted, they did the same, turning up or down to compensate.  They produced the faint fluttering vibration that emanated from deep in the ship, hundreds of feet beneath our cabin.  This subtle shuddering, easily ignored most of the day, lulled me to sleep at night.  It reminded me of where we were, of the ancestors that had given their lives to make all this possible, this art of navigating the planet's waters. 

There was metal humming deep in the water, keeping us upright and stable.  There was a man in the adjacent cabin who, in service of the Hastings Fire Brigade, had been stabbed in the eye, then contracted amyotrophic lateral sclerosis.  We sat in the ship's pub (of course there was one) side-by-side, our wives across from us, comparing stories.  He was, in many ways, the best reminder of all.  That this is life, that it is a voyage, that the essential conditions are rough, and that it all ends.

When the end came at Southampton, I never saw it.  The ship docked, swiveling its 360°-rotating screws to maneuver into port in the dead of night.  The Queen Mary 2 does not require tugboats.  It slips into port, and we slipped off.  A short cab ride to the railway station, an hour into London, and within minutes we were in another pub, this time on dry land, eating chicken tikka with Bloomsbury's lunch hour crowd.  And inwardly shaking our heads and reeling in utter disbelief.