Cold Play

Cold Play - Chapter One

1. Friday, at Sea

It’s two in the morning, and I’m wandering the decks.

I do this sometimes, late at night, after I’ve finished my gig in the TopDeck Lounge. Guitars locked away. Samuel, mopping up the bar, loading the dishwasher with empty glasses. Carla totting up receipts in the alcove off to the side.

It’s lovely, having the ship to myself.

We’re four hours out of Vancouver, meandering along the darkened, forested shorelines of Georgia Strait, our propellers barely lapping in the water. Killing time, really. We could be there in an hour if the captain so wished.

It’s our last night out. The end of a week’s sailing to Alaska and back.

We’ve had our final Bingo and Win-a-Cruise Lottery. And our Farewell Variety Extravaganza in the Showcase Lounge. DJ Pedro’s still hosting his Welcome Back to Canada Party in the Disco, but that’ll soon be winding down, the last of the diehards straggling back to their cabins, drunk and in no shape to disembark in a few hours’ time.

Downstairs, on the crew decks, it’s brightly-lit mayhem. All of the passengers’ bags and cases have been collected and they’re being loaded into wheeled cages for quick offload as soon as we dock at six.

Just ahead, if I lean out over the railing, I can see our sister ship, the Star Amethyst, 92,600 luxury tons, a five star hotel on top of a barge, lights ablaze in the night, heading on the same course. She’ll berth opposite us at Vancouver’s Cruise Ship Terminal.

We’re tiny. Only 28,000 tons. And old. But rather unusual. A refurbished ocean liner. One of the last steamships, in fact, still at sea. Passengers pay a premium to sail on Star Sapphire.

I run my hand along her teak railing. It’s old, an original fitting, lovingly maintained, polished weekly. Underneath the modern sealant you can still see the weathering from her years on the North Atlantic.

This is her last season. And I’ll be sad to see her go. I’ve worked on board for nearly three years, divided up into six month contracts. It’s not quite the end of her life. But it will be a change. When our last run to Alaska’s done in September, she’ll be retired and sent over to Europe. She’s being bought by a consortium of business partners, renovated yet again, and set up as a hotel and casino. StarSea Corporate’s been negotiating the terms for the past year. None of us will lose our jobs. We’ll be absorbed back into the system. Assignments aboard other StarSea ships. And my lady will live on, with a new lease on life.

With so many other passenger liners sent to the knacker’s yard, obsolete, unable to meet safety standards and unappreciated by a demanding market, it’s the best possible outcome. And I’m certain she knows it.

I’ve done my once-around the Outside Promenade. I’m going inside now. I give my favourite place on the railing an affectionate rub. I’m sure that thumb-sized indentation’s the result of thousands of others saying goodnight to her, just like me.

Downstairs, in the foyer outside the Atrium Room, I walk past a little display with photos of all the ship’s headline entertainers. There’s me – Jason Davey – TopDeck Lounge, performing all your vocal and instrumental favourites, 8 till Late. It’s a terrible picture. Makes me look like the second last act in a Fifties variety show featuring dancing elephants and fire-eating hoop jugglers.

I’ll forgive you for thinking you might be reminded of The Love Boat, that American sitcom from about thirty years ago, where passengers and crew weekly embarked upon romantic adventures and humorous storylines. We have DVD’s in the Officers’ Club, largely unwatched. And I really hate the theme song. Though if you ask me to sing it this week in TopDeck, I will.