Ride the Titanic! (30 page)

A ride that doesn’t change is a ride that dies. Our twenty-eight lifeboats cycle through the ride in groups of four. The ride’s computer program assigns a ‘class’ to each group. And while everyone encounters the identical sinking sequences, the introductory scenes vary, depending on their ‘class.’

For instance, one ride cycle presents second class accommodations with bunks built into the bulkheads. Every fourth cycle, the riders become steerage passengers experiencing ‘chuff-off’ behavior from the indifferent staff, instead of the slavish treatment Lewis and I are currently receiving from the First Class steward, who gushes on and on about the various amenities, like our private bath, wall heaters to stave off the Atlantic chill, our very own telephone and of course, call buttons to summon help at a moment’s notice.

Above his plummy drone I say, ‘This segment’s way too long.’

‘We can always trim it. But wait until we get consensus.’

I drum my fingers on the gunwale. ‘Every second we slow the flow-through, is cash heading down the toilet instead of into peoples’ paychecks.’

‘Aye, aye, captain.’

‘Speaking of which, I. . .’

Before I can finish, the EMV darts forward. Just before it collides with the mahogany-sheathed walls lit by brass fixtures, the walls BANG open and we race down the starboard boat deck, heading for the bow. Just before we arrive we ‘take off’ and rise about forty feet, but thanks to the EMV hydraulics, it feels more like five hundred feet to behold an utterly cloud-free, indigo blue night sky dotted with pinpoints of light from distant stars. Far below, we get a bird’s eye view of the
Titanic
steaming through the chilly night, with its massive, triple-expansion steam engines creating an endless V-shaped wake upon a glass-smooth sea.

Lewis says sonorously, ‘And so the curtain rises on act two of
Ride the Titanic
. Where we find the hapless lookouts. . .’

‘Shut up.’

‘Aye, aye, sir.’

We designed this fifteen second ‘pause in action’ as a way for the passengers to process what they’ve seen so far, and to prepare them for what’s to come. Lewis and Ellie wanted to cut it because it ‘did nothing, whereas I maintained that, much as a roller coaster ride begins with the first ‘click-click’ climb to the top, this short interval gave riders time to prepare themselves to experience the feelings they had the very first time they heard the
Titanic
story and shivered with a mixture of dread and relief.

‘This time I’m the one that’s bored,’ Lewis says.

‘Not for long.’

Our ‘flyover’ of the doomed ship dissolves in a twirling descent coupled with a slight ‘bobbing-in-the-ocean’ motion induced by the EMV that previews the disaster to come. It quickly steadies as the projected image shifts to the hushed, cathedral-like solemnity of the
Titanic’s
wheelhouse at night. The roofed enclosure, a clever combination of real and projected images, is open to the elements at both ends; a cold, uncomfortable place for the projected images of gathered officers and ratings, vapor puffing from their mouths as they breathe the night air.

A stately-looking officer sporting a neatly-trimmed white beard and exuding more confidence than the Rock of Gibraltar turns to us and announces in a rich British baritone, ‘Welcome aboard
.
I’m Captain Smith. My crew and I are here to serve your every need.’

‘How about lifeboats for everybody?’ Lewis says.

Smith’s lifelike 3D image never flinches, just as I imagine the real Smith never would have either. After a lifetime at sea, this doomed officer figures he’s seen it all, done it all, and it shows in his demeanor; at once lordly and serenely competent – a perfect King Lear in search of hubris, which even now drifts closer and closer on this deceptively calm night.

Smith consults his heavy gold watch; a perfect match for his dark-blue, gold-striped uniform, and then turns to his first officer.

‘Mr. Murdoch, you have the ship. Maintain a heading of two-eight-nine degrees. I shall be in my cabin should any need arise.’

‘Aye, aye, sir.’

He goes one way while our EMV goes the other, swooping upward to the
Crow’s Nest
scene
,
the same one I saw months ago in the drafty airport hangar out at McCarran. But no matter how many times Fleet spots the approaching iceberg and his voice cracks in panic, I always hope against hope – like our riders will – that just this once the
Titanic
will miss that damned chunk of ice.

‘Where’s the drunk?’ Lewis says after the iceberg strikes its fatal blow and we drop down from the crow’s nest and track along A Deck instead of the Boat Deck.

‘What sequence are we?’

‘Green 19A.’

‘That’s got the Astors in it – yep, there’s the dog.’

An Airedale prances and barks at the shards of ice skittering along the teak deck, followed by a couple strolling arm-in-arm; the man in his late forties, the woman considerably younger.

‘Hush, Kitty, you’ll wake the entire boat,’ Madeline Astor says.

John Astor laughs. ‘If she does, I’ll buy it.’

‘. . .said the richest man in the world.’

‘I’m hardly that, darling.’ He snuggles her closer. ‘But I am the richest husband because I’ve got you as my treasure.’

She pats her abdomen. ‘And our baby boy.’

‘How do you know it’s a ‘he’?’

‘Women know these things.’ She pecks his cheek. ‘Just like I know when we arrive in New York, tongues will start wagging again about your divorce.’

Astor picks up a piece of ice, gazes into the darkness and says somberly, ‘Had that iceberg come any closer, their tongues would be wagging about something entirely different.’

‘But darling, the
Titanic’s
unsinkable.’

‘So are we.’

They turn the corner and our ‘corner’ suddenly becomes a plunging descent, thanks to the EMV’s enhanced motion that makes the thirty-foot foot drop to the next scene feel like a stomach-flopping one hundred feet, as we race past steam lines, corridors, passageways, the steward’s mess, crew quarters, and steerage class accommodations.

Lewis whoops, ‘Ride ‘em cowboy!’

We slide through an ice-cold water mist wall and straight into the
Forward Hold
scene, where Captain Smith and Ship Designer Thomas Andrews once again peer into the watery depths of the flooded compartment. This time the scene starts with Andrews ticking off the flooding compartments on his fingers.

‘Cargo holds one and two, boiler rooms five and six, and the mailroom.’

‘Five compartments?’ Smith is incredulous.

Lewis says over their dialogue, ‘This scene’s working much better.’

‘Louder music helps.’

The
Forward Hold
scene uses a rumbling, disaster-in-the-making, orchestral chord throughout.

‘Be nice if life had a sound track,’ Lewis says.

‘Our next project.’

Andrews stoically regards the rising water. ‘She’ll float on three, but five. . . .’ He turns to Smith. ‘We’ve lost her, captain.’

The music swells.

Perfect.

But instead of zooming forward to the next scene, I hit
P-stop
on my tablet. (P stands for ‘panic’ – something standard on every ride, from merry-go-rounds to sinking ocean liners).

The motionless projected image hovers in front of us like a vivid painting: Smith, Andrews and the water, frozen in time as our EMV drifts up and down slightly, waiting for the disaster to continue.

‘Problem?’ Lewis says.

‘Everything’s fine.’ I key my two-way with the ride bridge. ‘Keep the ride dark. Cycle through to the next version. Who’s driving the bus tonight?’

‘I am, sir,’ a female voice answers crisply.

‘That you, Molly?’

‘Aye, aye, sir.’

‘Cue to first dialogue and bring the music in sooner.’

It takes only a moment before she says, ‘Version four-dash-seven cued and ready, sir.’

I turn to Lewis. ‘She the one who found the bad chip?’

He nods.

‘Not shy when she’s in the driver’s seat.’

‘No woman is.’

‘On my count, Molly. In three. . .two. . .one. . . . . .GO.’

The EMV reverses about thirty feet and re-enters the
Forward Hold
scene. Everything is identical except for the dialogue. Ellie filmed four different versions to keep the scene fresh for repeat riders. On the fourth and final version, Captain Smith starts by saying, ‘Are you sure?’

Andrews says, ‘Five compartments flooding. One spilling over into the next. Three and we could have lasted. Five, not a chance.’

A long pause. Water sounds. Music chord insistent. Smith turns to Andrews.

‘She’s gone then?’

‘An hour-and-a-half at the very most.’

Smith looks as if Andrews punched him in the face.

BOOM, the music swells and we shoot upward, zooming past scenes of chaos in the flooding boiler room, then past stewards hurrying down second class halls with stacks of life preservers, while soothing their passengers.

‘Just a precaution, everything’s in order, not to worry.’

We move past the deserted Grand Staircase, save for two tuxedoed men plopped on the bottom-most step, arms around each other, singing a drunken tune.

‘Molly, please note in the
Grand
Staircase
scene for the VIP version, lead with version two of the drunks instead of this one. It’s got more punch.’

‘Agreed, sir. Confirming change.’

Our EMV lifeboat climbs past the inner decks, until we reach the open promenade deck, slowly filling with curious passengers trying to find out why the ship has stopped dead in the water.

‘This Molly kid is good. Say again where you found her?’

Lewis calls up something on his tablet. ‘According to HR, she jumped ship from Carson’s group at
Five Flags
.’

‘No wonder. Treats his people like monkeys. Give her a raise and put her on benefits. She’s got style.’

‘Good luck with that. You know how ride gypsies are; gone the minute we’re up and running.’

‘Dental too.’

‘Oh, my God, why didn’t you say so?’ he says. ‘That’d make anybody put down roots in this town – root canals, get it?’

‘I get it, and I also get that we’re going to need two rock-solid ride teams to run the show when you and I head off to Macau to build the next one.’

‘Ah, yes, so many Asian delights await us when we. . .’

Lewis’s face turns a bright orange as the first of
Titanic’s
distress rockets WHOOSHES into the air and explodes in a shower of sparking stars overhead. As the boom of the explosion subsides, the faint DIT-DAH-DIT sounds of a telegraph key prepares the ears for what the eyes are about to see.

Our EMV rises to the boat deck and enters the
Wireless Room
Scene, where three figures crowd the tight space, their bulk obscuring some of the mysterious-looking, clunky, telegraph wireless devices lining the antiseptic, no-nonsense, white wooden walls. Scent generators fill the air with the tangy aroma of ozone, as if coming from the turn-of-the-century instruments that could pass for the real thing even though they’re non-functioning props.

One of the wireless operators, Harold Bride, keys the transmitter, while Captain Smith raises his voice to be heard over the screeching sound as he says to the other operator, Jack Phillips, ‘Who’ve we heard from?’

Phillips looks like a frightened teenager doing his best to be a grownup. ‘Sir, the
Burma, Virginian, Mount Temple,
and
the
Frankfurt.’

‘Thank God for the wireless.’

Bride looks up from his work. ‘None of them are close by, sir.’

‘How far?’

The operators exchange a nervous glance. Phillips licks his dry lips but can’t answer. Bride says quietly, ‘Too far, sir.’

The rapid fire stream of did-dah-dits from an answering ship begin. Bride quickly jots them down and then shouts, ‘It’s the
Carpathia!
’ He tears off the message paper and hands it to Smith who reads it. ‘Fifty-eight miles.’

Bride half-giggles in relief. ‘Is that all?’

‘Depends.’

‘Sir?’

‘On how much steam they can put on her boilers.’

Bride says, ‘Message reads Captain Rostron is coming hard. At twelve knots she’ll be alongside us in less than four hours.’

Smith says quietly, ‘Pray it’s sooner, lads.’

The young men stiffen, and then as if yanked by invisible threads, Bride turns back to his desperate work in the tiny room while Phillips hurries straight at us and slams the door with a resounding ‘THUMP.’

Pitch blackness.

‘Home run,’ Lewis says. Couldn’t spot a single glitch. You?’

‘They all should be this sweet.’

The EMV drops suddenly and so does my stomach.

‘Too much?’ Lewis says.

‘Make a note; thrills, not vomit.’

‘Engine Room
Scene coming up.’

A carefully calculated combination of nitrogen smoke curtains and focused heat panels sweep us out of the darkness and into the organized chaos that must have taken place on the real ship that awful night. Gone are the virtual green screens in Hollywood with actors running around. In their place are REAL3D generated images of the Dante-like inferno of the boiler room, with the hissing roar of escaping steam combined with the shouts of men struggling to keep the furnace fires going while ice cold water rises around their shaking legs.

‘Stay at it, lads. Just a bit longer!’ shouts one of the officers. ‘Got to keep milady’s tea nice an’ hot before she takes to her lifeboat, you know.’

The stokers laugh as they shovel wet lumps of coal into the fiery furnace mouths. Our EMV tilts as an incoming rush of water sweeps a distant group of stokers off their feet. As they struggle to rise the mood shifts from labor to panic. The time has come at last. The officer is nowhere to be seen. Instead, one of the engineers, the same broad shouldered mountain of a man, last seen on the soundstage in Hollywood, wades through the mass of men, shoving here, berating there, exhorting them to leave their posts.

‘How many times do I have to tell you blokes to get out? She’s going down and there’s not a bloody thing we can do to stop her. You hear me? Do you?’ He pauses, looks around at his tilting, water-filled world, with men shouting and clambering to escape and then looks straight at us.