for Arctic Explorer Donald B. MacMillan
Each trip, the abandon ship drill is conducted
first in Russian, the language of the chartered ship,
then in English. We make a joke of it, take
snapshots of ourselves in orange horse collars
as the chief safety officer drones through a bullhorn.
At the life boat, we pretend to imagine it lowering,
us all getting on. I eye them. Who would sing
to keep up morale, who shove, sag or need lifting?
An iceberg to port does not bring Titanic to mind.
It’s my job to lay out the reassuring essentials:
EPIRB, water, fishing hook, flares. I’ve not seen
much compared to some, but I’ve seen lightning
hit a mast, green water over the bow, portholes
blown. And, over beers, heard worse. Listening,
a dark corner of my mind gets lit, remembering….
Just out of college, deckhand on a tour boat in Alaska.
2 am, uncharted rock. Nothing happened fast,
but we were stuck, it was dark, and the tide
was dropping. We heaved the life boats
from the top deck, yanked a cord to make
their orange tents pop and fill, lowered
tenders, brought people to the fantail. They had
on jackets and pajamas, carried medicine
in plastic bags. Some we sent back
to leave behind “extra” luggage. Some
we had to hoist by the armpits. One woman’s
sweatpants caught on the raft’s lip. Pulled down. Pink
nylon briefs. Coats on hooks in the companionway
hung out from the bulkhead. 25? 30? What was
the angle? It felt like 45 from vertical. I said
I wanted to double check below.
The bos’n told me to be quick about it.
I snuck to my bunk. Not the camera, not
letters, not money. I double-bagged
my notebook of poems, stuffed it down
the front of my pants. Then went back and kept on.
We had to rig a sketchy ladder for the last few
to get down into the life raft, and I couldn’t really
bend to help. I don’t think anyone noticed.
Soon, the tenders towed them out to meet
a ferry, and it was just me, the chief mate,
an engineer, and another deckhand.
Even the generator was, for once, silent.
The chief mate squatted and smoked.
Her hair gleamed in the trouble light.
We listened to the tide. Some of these
details are wrong. No one was hurt. The next day
two bruises, blackberry-sized, surfaced
on my upper thighs from notebook corners
digging in. I shouldn’t have gone down for it.
I knew that even then. If the boat heeled
further, if something fell and I was pinned,
if someone had to come down for me….
Mac, I’ve read about the time you grounded
out and careened until the mast snapped,
the doubtful seas you chose to cross
with a boatful of boys, moments driven
by something other than prudence.
When did you first learn the scope
of your dangerous selfishness?