Chapter 5
FIVE
SHE’S SO HIGH — TAL BACHMAN
The sun is a welcome sight as I slide out of the black van, a camera slung over one shoulder and the strap of my bulky crossbody gear bag cutting into my chest. My eyes are still puffy from my early-morning cry—thanks, Glen—but the heat of the sun on my skin feels glorious.
I always miss its warmth in the winter. Even the most delicate kiss from its rays when it greets me again is enough to lift my mood.
But, I quickly realize that my last-minute decision to throw on cargo pants before leaving the hotel may have been unwise—I’m really regretting choosing the utility of pockets over the practicality of shorts in this heat.
Still, I’ll take clear skies and sunshine over the snowy spring weather back home any day. Even if I’m sweating my ass off.
The photo Kyla sent on the way to the port of the ice-encased tree in front of our apartment is proof that I’m really in no position to complain.
As I stretch my achy limbs on the sidewalk beside the van, heat prickles up my scalp, and I can literally feel my curly hair frizzing. I smooth back an errant ringlet and pull the rest into a high ponytail to get it off the back of my neck.
Shade is scarce at the port of Civitavecchia today, but the vast open sky reaching across the shimmering waves is such a startling shade of blue that I lower my sunglasses briefly to see if the polarized lenses are playing tricks on me.
How is it that everything is somehow more beautiful in Italy?
The two camera assistants who hitched a ride in my taxi have begun hauling cases out of the trunk and onto a dolly.
While they begin the tedious task of transporting equipment to the ship, I form a plan in my mind.
A GoPro mounted to the side of the ship, probably just above the loading bay, will be the perfect vantage point for passive B-roll footage of the crew getting ready to set sail.
I’ll have to figure out how to mount it without getting in someone’s way, but I always seem to make it work.
Then I can focus on shooting B-roll of the ship from the dock—waves lapping against the clean white ship, a staff member cleaning a balcony, a bird flying over the funnel stacks that rise above the decks.
Little details that help set the scene. In TV, these shots will only make up a few seconds of the episode, but they help tell the viewer, in clear terms: This is where our story begins.
I spot the ship after only a couple of steps down the wide, concrete dock—it rises like a mountain on the horizon: the Mediterranean Gemstone.
One of the biggest cruise ships in the world, the Gemstone is an adults-only monstrosity—a floating city that was built specifically for Love at First Sail, with an entire deck dedicated to filming—and comes complete with a private, contestants-only pool, bar, pickleball court, and gaudy lounge area furnished with cheap vinyl sectionals and loveseats (for easy wipe down at the end of the day, gross).
When Sailor Productions announced the construction of the Gemstone, the industry was shocked.
The concept of building a set that could still work as a consumer model after production wrapped was not unusual for TV—but building an entire cruise ship for a show?
And with the public using the space at the same time? Unheard of.
The publicity the series garnered from that news alone helped launch the first season’s ratings sky-high. Everyone wanted to see what it would look like.
And even more, everyone wanted to see themselves there.
Now, with eight complete seasons under its belt, the Gemstone is always fully booked—attracting couples who want a luxurious getaway as well as superfans who want to catch a glimpse of filming, or even be invited on as a contestant.
Because that’s another thing that makes Love at First Sail different from other reality dating shows: if someone can’t find love with another contestant, producers may allow them to pick someone from the passenger manifest. They’re usually plants, of course—people who applied to be on the show but didn’t make the cut.
Perhaps they weren’t quite the perfect fit when it came to the final casting, but they’ve already been vetted with background checks and psychological testing, so that if a contestant needs to resort to searching the ship for their saving grace, the producers can still have some control over the story.
Those little details aren’t generally shared with the audience, however…
so it makes for a fun little plot twist once or twice per season.
As I approach the ship, a sense of familiarity falls over me. I vaguely know my way around thanks to my gig during their first season. Still, the sheer size of the ship is intimidating, even seeing it again all these years later, and I can’t help but stare up at it in awe as I approach.
Which is exactly how I find myself walking directly into the broad chest of a man wearing a crisp white jacket and holding two giant melons—a honeydew, and a cantaloupe.
“Oof!” The air whooshes out of me as we collide, and his grip on the honeydew wavers.
I try to catch it as it slips from his hand, my fingers fumbling and sliding against its smooth, waxy rind.
But as I work to grasp the fruit, I underestimate my reach and manage to push it even farther away, sending it sailing to the ground…
where it cracks wide open with a nauseating splat.
The man and I both pause, blinking down at the bright green carnage at our feet.
“Fuuuck,” is all I can manage after a beat, drawing out the syllables and cringing at my clumsiness.
I steal a glance up at the owner of the melons—well, singular melon, now—and am struck by how handsome he is.
A crop of curly black hair skims his tan skin, and his eyes sparkle with a laugh that I can tell he’s working hard to contain.
His full lips, framed by a dark beard, twitch and turn up into a smile.
“My melon,” he gasps, mock despair lacing his gravelly voice. “You murdered my melon.”
His eyes are on me now—dark and warm, but with a slight edge, like he’s challenging me to engage.
My stomach bottoms out, and for a moment I can only blink as I take in the rest of him.
He’s tall and lean with broad shoulders.
I notice his jacket is actually the top half of a set of chef’s whites, the black buttons undone to midway down his torso, revealing a tight black T-shirt.
The sleeves of his jacket are pushed up, exposing strong, corded forearms covered in faded tattoos that I can’t quite make out.
I snap my gaze back up to his and open my mouth to say something witty, but stop short as a squat man with little tufts of gray hair ringing the sides of his head screams at us from across the dock to move.
The man with the now lone cantaloupe grabs my arm and quickly pulls me out of the way just as a speeding forklift zooms around us, nearly clipping my foot. I whip around to face the driver, who is waving erratically at me and yelling, “Togliti di mezzo, idiota!”
I don’t speak Italian, but I can at least guess what that last word means.
“I’m not an idiota. I was here first!” I shout back, my blood instantly boiling—then just as quickly dissipating into embarrassment, as I hear the echo of my shout reverberate around us.
It’s not exactly “staying under the radar” to yell at ship staff. But I’m cranky, and hot, and I couldn’t help it.
Anyway, he started it.
Of course, it’s too late to make a difference now; the driver is long gone and I’m left standing next to Melon Man, his hand still wrapped gingerly around my arm as he snickers at my expense. Heat begins to bloom up my neck and across my cheeks.
Am I seriously blushing?
Now, not only am I a sweaty mess, but I probably look like an overripe tomato, too.
What a way to meet a man.
“Sorry…I’m not usually this unhinged…I promise,” I say, attempting to sound calm as I turn back to the man who just saved my ass from becoming forklift roadkill even after I decimated his fruit.
“It’s okay,” he says, dropping his hand from my arm. “Melon massacre is stressful—I can understand your reaction after a situation like that.”
I notice he has a slight Australian accent. I also notice that the teasing glint of laughter in his eyes is back, and I groan.
“I didn’t murder your melon, I was trying to catch it,” I counter, shifting awkwardly on my feet and suddenly far too aware of my frizzy hair and sweaty palms.
“Oh, really? Tell that to the fruit salad at my feet,” he smirks, and I roll my eyes. “Well, if your intention wasn’t malicious, then it would be manslaughter, wouldn’t it? Or melonslaughter, I suppose.”
“Oh my God.” I drag my hand down my face in exasperation. “You’re so funny and mature. Thank you…”
I look up at him, raising my eyebrow expectantly.
“Nolan,” he replies smugly, offering his free hand. I wipe mine against my shirt as inconspicuously as I can before shaking his. His palms are soft and cool, his fingers calloused.
“Chloe. I’m with the TV crew.” He nods, glancing at the camera on my shoulder.
“I gathered. I’m with the kitchen crew.”
“I gathered,” I parrot, nodding at his white jacket. “Anyway, thank you for saving me from that forklift.”
“Don’t mention it.” He smiles, then glances over his shoulder at the boxes of produce being loaded into the belly of the ship. “Well, it was nice to meet you, Chloe-the-Melon-Murderer.”
“I thought I made it clear that I’m not a melon murderer.”
“Sorry, Chloe-the-Not-Melon-Murderer. For both our sakes, I hope the next time I run into you, my produce remains unharmed.”
“Don’t count on it,” I fire back, a playful smile pulling at my lips.
He flashes me a conspiratorial grin and a wink, then jogs away.
I watch as Nolan calls out to another chef on the dock and points to a skid of stacked cardboard fruit boxes.
I would bet a stupid amount of money that they probably hold melons.
Nolan seems much more at ease here than I do, but as I watch him out of the corner of my eye, somehow I feel more at ease, too.
Which is a good thing, since I haven’t actually held a camera in a year.
I drop to one knee and open my bag, pulling out my scuffed Sony XDCAM and snapping a full battery onto the back. I turn it on, adjust a few settings, and hike it up onto my shoulder.
As soon as my eye slips comfortably into the groove of the viewfinder, a knot I hadn’t even noticed sitting heavy in the pit of my stomach seems to loosen and uncoil.
The familiar comfort of doing something I love, that I have loved for so long, wraps around me like an embrace from an old friend.
It feels like coming home.
Trying not to get too emotional about the moment, I work on framing a shot of the kitchen crew carrying boxes into the ship, then pan upward to the scrolling black letters that spell out Mediterranean Gemstone.
I pause for a moment, letting the tape roll to record ambient sound.
The beeping of a forklift backing up. Indistinguishable shouts and chatter from the busy crew. Seagulls squawking in the distance as they swoop down to the waves. I close my eyes for a second, immersing myself in the soundtrack of the port. Then I take a deep breath.
And here’s where our story begins, I think to myself.