CHAPTER TEN
Port Everglades, Florida
1964
"Stick with me, Gage," Sam Begay told Chance when the cab he called arrived at the Galveston docks. "You'll find work soon. I'll foot the bills until you do."
The Cahoone's crew, anticipating the survivors' plight, had passed the hat. Fellow merchant mariners ashore chipped in, too. The small fund would tide the Witch's crew over for a time while they looked for work.
Chance took ten dollars. Begay took only enough to pay the cab fare. The other survivors needed it more.
Chance was grateful for Begay's kindness. Although he now possessed a letter from Captain Isaacson attesting to his identity, all his other belongings rested in Davy Jones' Locker. Ten dollars was all that stood between him and sleeping on a park bench. For Chance, being destitute was an eye-opener. He had never been utterly without home and hearth.
Begay had endured the experience before and taken steps to prevent it happening again. He kept a small checking account at Seamen's Bank in Galveston. The bank, accustomed to periodic visits by crewmen bereft of ship and papers, accepted the letter signed by Captain Isaacson and co-signed by the Cahoone's skipper as sufficient documentation to access his account. They gave him a pad of temporary checks and a letter on bank stationery documenting his identity. In two or three weeks, he would receive a replacement Merchant Marine ticket. When it arrived, he could apply for work through the various shipping offices along the coast.
Chance surrendered five of his dollars to open an account, and he, too, got a letter of introduction from the bank. Chance hid a smile as he folded the letter. No demand for Social Security numbers or a birth certificate. Just one man's word to another. Incredible.
Next they stopped at a rooming house catering to seafarers, where they obtained a surprisingly clean room for a mere $3.00 a day each. Having obtained a roof over their heads, Begay and Chance collected donated clothing at a church community closet.
Although the rooming house did not provide meals, each room had a hot-plate. Until Chance found work washing dishes at a nearby diner, the men ate a lot of soup. The wages Chance earned were a joke, but they paid his share of the room rent. Furthermore, the cook encouraged him to take home the left-overs when she miscalculated the amount of mashed potatoes and pot roast or fried chicken needed for the day - something that happened quite regularly not long after Chance got the job.
The same day Begay's replacement ticket arrived, the landlady brought a telegram addressed to Begay. Begay read it, and uttered an authentic Navajo war whoop.
"Goddess Cruise Lines is hiring! Holy frijoles, half the Cassiopeia's crew's hospitalized with some kind of bug. They're stuck in Port Everglades with a boat-load of pissed-off passengers. They can't leave port until they replace their incapacitated people. If we can get to Ft. Lauderdale in 24 hours, we've got jobs again."
"You forget, I don't have any papers. You'd better go, but what cruise ship would hire me?"
Begay laughed. "A desperate one. Don't worry, your letter from Captain Isaacson will get you a temporary berth. You may have to start as a deck-hand, but you'll work your way up in no time. C'mon! Grab your sea-bag and start packing!"
"Just how do you plan to get there in 24 hours?"
Begay stuck out a thumb in the traditional gesture of a hitchhiker.
"We'll never make it in time."
"You got any better ideas?"
At last Chance allowed himself to smile. "Actually, I do."
He pulled a Nestlé's Chocolate tin from under his bunk and gave it a shake, producing a muffled rattle. He had squirreled away every spare penny from his dish-washing job and any odd chores where he earned a dollar or two. When they counted the quarters, dimes, one-dollar bills and the occasional five, they had over $250.00
"Let's charter a plane."
Port Everglades, Florida, was established as a deep water harbor in 1927. By Chance's time, it formed the basis of a diverse maritime operation that included a growing containerized cargo business and a five-star cruise port.
In 1964, it had some serious growing to do.
They caught a bus on its single run from town to the harbor and followed a handful of other hopeful seamen to a Quonset hut squatting near the docks. Chance's first glimpse of the Cassiopeia stopped him in his tracks.
She was about the size of the Denali Damsel, on which he'd posed as a passenger, escorting Princess Victoria to ransom her ne'er-do-well husband. Small by modern standards, the Cassiopeia towered over the nascent port facilities, her prow as clean-cut as a clipper ship's, her livery a color scheme Chance had never seen - deep mulberry, pale aqua, and white.
"Uh-oh," Begay said, skidding to a stop beside Chance. "That doesn't look good."
"I think she's beautiful."
"Huh-uh," Begay said. "Don't you know purple is the very worst color you can paint a ship?"
This was a nautical superstition Chance had never heard. And obviously not everyone believed it. A brochure he'd spotted at the Miami airport extolled the fabulous adventures to experience in Florida, including a cruise to the Bahamas aboard either of the twin ships Califia and Cassiopeia. A private bath in every cabin! Swimming all day, every day on our stunning 'lido' decks! Air conditioning! Some passengers were so taken with the ships' amenities, the brochure proclaimed, they chose to live on board all year round.
"She couldn't be any more unlucky than the Sea Witch," Chance said.
Shouldering his skimpy duffle, he headed for the Quonset hut. After a brief hesitation, Sam Begay followed.
Inside, voices droned like the hum of busy bees. White uniformed men and one or two women wearing crisp white blouses and deep mulberry skirts sat at a row of tables against the far wall. Behind them, taped to the wall, hand-lettered signs read STEWARD or ENGINEERING or some other job title. Lines were short. Some recruiters were closing down their tables.
"Looks like we're about the last applicants," Chance said.
"Yeah, but we're the best."
"I don't see any signs for deck hands."
"That would have filled up first thing," Begay said. "Go to ABLE BODIED. You'll qualify." He marched off toward the sign that read ENGINEERING.
Chance shrugged and headed across the room.
The officer manning the table for ABLE BODIED wore a tag reading 'Mr. Oglethorpe Cruise Director'. Chance wondered why a cruise director was screening seamen rather than stewards or entertainers or chess mavens.
Oglethorpe polished black horn-rim glasses with a linen pocket handkerchief monogrammed with an ornate 'O'. He took his time finishing the task, folded the kerchief just so, and replaced it in the correct pocket before acknowledging Chance's presence.
"We've almost reached our quota for Able Bodied," he said, giving Chance's hand-me-down clothing a disparaging once-over. He glanced at the documents on his table. 'No MM ticket, eh? Have you any proof you're what you claim to be?"
Chance resisted the urge to rap a sea-calloused finger on the documents. "Just what I gave you." You arrogant SOB.
As Oglethorpe sniffed and reached for the documents, Chance added, "I was on the Sea Witch when - "
"The hell you say!" for the first time, Oglethorpe looked at Chance, rather than past him. "Heard about that." He gave the bank document a cursory glance, but read the letter from Captain Isaacson in full. "Captain Isaacson speaks quite highly of you. Says here you were his purser. Why aren't you applying in that department?"
Chance shrugged. "Without an MM ticket?"
"Captain Isaacson's word is good enough for Goddess Cruises. Stand by one."
The man's tone had thawed, but Chance still thought he was an arrogant SOB.
Oglethorpe reached for a pad and removed a fountain pen from an inside pocket. He made a fastidious notation and tore off the page. He handed it and his documents to Chance. "Go down the line until you find the sign for SHIP'S OFFICERS. Give the lady this."
Oglethorpe had closed his table before Chance took three steps.
The woman at the SHIP'S OFFICERS table eyed Chance speculatively through rhinestone-studded cat's eye glasses. Her beehive hairdo looked like it could withstand gale force winds. Her name-tag read 'Hi! I'm Shirley!' and indicated neither marital status nor job title. Apparently, despite its name, Goddess Cruise Lines did not yet embrace the concept of women's lib.
Shirley glanced at Oglethorpe's note, skimmed the other papers, and gave Chance a dazzling smile.
"Martin Gage. Marty? Lost all your documents, hmmm? We'll help you get those replaced. We're not as strict about papers as Cunard or White Star. And we've been looking for a Purser's Assistant. That's a step down for you, but if you're as good as your recommendation says, I'm sure you'll be up for promotion in no time."
"Assistant suits me fine, Ma'am."
"Call me Shirley. Ever worked on a cruise ship?"
"No. Just freighters."
"You'll find things quite a bit different here. Dress code, for one thing. Hair. That queue will have to go. The beard, too, I'm afraid. Can't have you looking like a pirate, although I must say you'd make a very striking one."
Chance gave her his little boy grin. "Whatever you say, Shirley."
Shirley twiddled a pen as she looked him over. "Our goal is to make our voyages exciting and memorable for our passengers, many of whom are ladies traveling without male companions. To that end, we demand somewhat more from our officers than other cruise lines expect. You will dine with our guests and otherwise interact with them as much as possible. Our ladies expect our officers to be…attentive. Especially attractive, fit specimens like yourself. You will escort them on tours and attend our evening dances. You do dance, don't you, Marty?"
It was the last question Chance expected. No, he didn't dance, not if he could find any way to avoid it.
Thinking quickly, he said, "Um, not as good as my buddy over there applying at ENGINEERING does."
"Unfortunately, we do not permit our below decks crew to fraternize with guests. So brush up. I'll find someone to give you some refresher lessons. Do you play bridge?"
"I'm better at poker." This was not looking good. "Maybe I'd better go see if there's any deck hand jobs left."
Shirley rolled her eyes. "Sorry. I'm short on attractive men this trip, so you're elected. Maybe we can use you in the casino."
Anything but a damned dance floor, Chance thought.
She handed him a clipboard with several forms attached. "Fill these out. Take them to the end table. Show Mr. Mayhue in Ship's Stores your documents. Tell him you'll need to draw uniforms and some casual clothing against your first pay packet. Welcome, Marty, to the Cassiopeia."
Chance spotted Begay filling out forms and walked over to join him.
"I see you got hired," Begay said. "What's your rating?"
"They needed a Purser's Assistant."
Begay whistled. "Not bad. I told you, didn't I?"
"You didn't tell me I'd have to help entertain the ladies."
"Gee what a shame, having to entertain the ladies. I'll feel sorry for you all the time I'm greasing valves and hoping the boilers don't blow up in the middle of a hurricane."
"She didn't mean I'm supposed to…do more than…dance with them, did she?"
Begay stared at Chance. "What's wrong with you, Gage? You all of a sudden shy? These dames are mostly rich old gals with no one special in their lives, who only want a little attention to spice up their voyage. It's not like you gotta marry them! There's guys who'd kill for the opportunity. Hurry up and fill out your papers and we'll go find our quarters. And then see if we can scrounge something to eat. These passenger ships feed their crews pretty good."
With a sigh, Chance began to write.