Mo’orea, French Polynesia
Today
A cruise ship passes across my view. It is heading away from the island, and I am relieved for the return of solitude. I arrived this morning on a ferry that was littered with chicken droppings, and I much prefer the authenticity of that to the artificial world that a city-on-the-sea creates.
The enormous white behemoth had been docked next to the ferry, dwarfing our little vessel into near invisibility.
I have cruised once before—I think it is almost a requirement as soon as your hair has fully turned gray and plucking the first hints of them is a distant and futile memory. My husband wanted to go on one, and I could never deny him anything.
I understand why someone might like to see points across the world with the ease of unpacking one time and having excellent cuisine available at all hours of the clock. And though it felt unnatural to see Broadway-quality dancers steady themselves onstage as twenty-five-foot swells tossed the ship back and forth, it was not the reason that it was both my first and last time.
It was the people that got under my skin. The ones who rose before the sun and attached parrot-shaped clips to the backs of the prime swimming-pool chairs, staking their claim with plastic and terry cloth while galivanting off for hours before returning. All the while rendering them unusable to the rest of us. Or the ones who muscled into the buffet lines to gorge themselves on food that is seemingly limitless. God forbid someone else get to it five seconds before.
Ah! How it made me miss the golden years of air travel when people treated the privilege that it was with the sophistication and appreciation that it deserved. They call those days the Jet Set age now with a nostalgia that makes me feel every bit as old as I am.
That is not to say that we did not have our challenges with passengers. Human nature is unchanging, and some of the more colorful stories from our days in the air have become legends among us alumnae. But there was always a sense, at least, that it was a special and hallowed thing to cross the ocean.
I digress. But it has me thinking of you, especially today. There is some small comfort I take in your premature departure—you never had to encounter the many obstacles that we survivors do as we age. Cruise passengers aside, I could do without stiffening joints and backaches that make it an impossible feat just to get out of bed. If I were more religious, I might find some satisfaction in the eternal merit of those sufferings. But as it is, they only make me count the days until I, too, am at rest. With you and with my dear husband.
If I were more religious, I might also hesitate to scatter your ashes in these waters, as I’ve been told that at the end of the world we will be reunited with our bodies, something that cannot be done if we’ve been reduced so microscopically and thrown to the whims of the wind.
Goodness, I am in a strange mood. Another consequence of age, I’ve discovered. When time is running out, impatience settles in, and though I do try my best to remain youthful, there are limitations to being an octogenarian that even the most ardent Pollyanna can’t overcome.
I wonder if anyone today even knows who Pollyanna is.
But never mind that. I have returned to this glorious island at last, and I shall not waste another minute with anything that does not include soaking up the beauty and reminiscing with you.