Ride the Titanic! (8 page)

Scooter’s air compressor stutters to a blissful stop. By now Äida and Radames, are singing their farewell to the world, trapped in the tomb until they die. As the curtain falls, all that’s left of their dream of a life together is their love for each other. Sometimes you get both if your stars align. But theirs were crossed from the start.  

Scooter says, ‘What do you think?’ He brushes off specks of dust from the
Titanic’s
meticulously restored bronze propeller blades.

‘You still got the touch.’

He shrugs his narrow shoulders. ‘Proof’s in the sinking.’

‘Lewis, can you run a cycle for us?’

‘In a sec.’

He waves away a fog of soldering smoke and has a coughing fit as he unwinds his long legs from the stool like a spider coming free from its web. He grabs a small, wireless remote control unit and tosses it over.

‘Me?’

‘You’re the one putting on the show for our Bermuda mark. Push the green button. That starts the demo cycle – wait a sec – okay to go, sir?’

Scooter steps back and rubs his hands together as if conjuring up a ghost. ‘No time like the present.’

‘Kill the lights, Joe.’

‘Done.’

In the darkness, all I can hear are people breathing. I add my shaky breath to the chorus and say. ‘Let’s ride the ride.’

A hidden bank of white LEDs flicker on beneath a rippled sheet of blue Plexiglas installed around the ship model to simulate water. Simultaneously, the
Titanic’s
lights come on in portholes, staterooms, the boat deck, and the bridge. Despite being in the middle of a dark, depthless ocean, the elegant, knife-prowed ship glows with the promise of life. The below-waterline LED’s begin a gentle pulsing which creates the illusion of moving water.

‘Nice wave effect,’ I say to Lewis.

He shrugs off my praise. ‘That’s why God made soldering irons and resistors. Push the yellow button.’

I hesitate, mesmerized by the sight.

Scooter clears his throat. ‘Worried I didn’t do a good job?’

‘It’s not that,’ I say, embarrassed at what I’m feeling about the people who died that night. ‘I mean, is this a sick idea or what? A ride, I mean.’

Scooter scratches his grizzled beard. ‘Sad for sure but not sick. That ship going down changed the world as we knew it. Up to then we thought we could do anything, climb anything, build anything – nothing could stop the march of mankind. But after that iceberg hit, the shit hit the fan and we started growing up the hard way.’

‘But. . . making it a ride?’ I say, pointing at the elegant ship, just seconds away from its destiny. ‘What’s the point?’

‘Money,’ says Lewis. ‘End of discussion. Push the damned button.’

Joe chimes in. ‘I’ll tell you why. The real
Titanic’s
buried at the bottom of the sea, broken in pieces, rusting away to nothingness, covered with goop, and nobody sees it except online and in picture books. Even then we don’t much, except when April rolls around. Otherwise, it’s like you and me, Scooter. And you too, Herbie.’

‘Us?’

‘A few days ago we were like the
Titanic,
buried at the bottom of the sea along with all the other dried-up, used-up old farts of this world, covered with family photographs and crappy Medicare. But then this
paisan
son-in-law of mine comes along with his cockamamie idea, and what happens?’

He pats the bow
.

‘We turn into a bunch of Disney Mermaids dancing with the handsome prince here.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ Lewis says.

‘I’m speaking for this whole wacky crew and I’m telling you that every time folks see this beautiful ship of ours go down for the count, they won’t give a shit about all that serious stuff Scooter’s talking about –they damn well will understand something geezers like me do with every passing day: life is short, live it while you can before you go down.’

He grabs the remote control out of my hand. ‘Watch.’

He pushes the button.

The wooden shipping crate containing our operating ride model is as big as
Frankenstein’s
coffin and weighs a ton, too, not to mention the crates with Joe’s paintings of the ship and hotel complex, plus my foam core-mounted scale drawings. Air shipping our presentation to the Bahamas is way too expensive. But fortune favors the bold, and I am nothing if not bold in these early, desperate days of the project, and accordingly, track down a charter boat company in Port St. Lucie, Florida that makes regular cargo and passenger trips to the Bahamas for an unbelievably low price.

‘How much?’ I repeat into the phone.

The gravelly voice assures me I heard right.

Refusing Joe’s help, I book our trip, using the last of my credit cards that has some wiggle room left.

The following morning, Lewis drives Joe and me south on I-95 to Port St. Lucie in his van. Because we took out the back seats to fit everything inside, Joe’s riding shotgun, while I perch on the presentation crate, drinking black coffee that does little to remove the hangover from Herbie Gottschalk’s margaritas the night before, when we celebrated our unbelievable achievement of putting together what I pray will be a compelling presentation

When we finally arrive dockside, the only boat in sight is a flat-bottomed, ex-World War II LCT (Landing Craft Tank), bobbing gently in the swells. Once used to carry troops and tanks onto invasion shores, someone painted its boxy sides and turret-like, armored helm bright yellow with crimson trim.

‘Hell of a paint job for a Navy tub,’ Joe says to a tall, whippet-thin, grey-bearded man, who stands near the bow, coiling a line.

‘Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, my friend.’ The man’s deeply-lined, bark leather face looks like the sun took it out back for a whipping.

‘How’s she sail?’ Joe says.

‘If you treat her right, like a dream,’ he rasps. ‘If not, a nightmare.’

‘Lots of freeboard on her.’

‘The wind can be a problem at times – say, are you sailing with us today, or just passing through to make fun of my yellow boat?’

I add quickly, ‘We spoke on the phone? Mike Sullivan. You the captain?’

‘Folks call me ‘Bo.’ You’re early. Don’t shove off ‘til noon.’

‘What time we get into Freeport?’

He rubs his beard while contemplating my question. ‘Nine or ten tonight, depending on the aforementioned wind.’

‘But she’s not a sailboat.’

He bares his tobacco stained teeth in a happy grin. ‘Son, this tub of mine is so broad in the beam the wind shoves her wherever she damn well pleases. Reminds me of my first wife, Ethel. That’s her name on the stern, by the way.’

‘Nice gesture.’

‘More a cautionary tale.’

Joe mutters, ‘Nine hours to get there? Only takes an hour by air.’

‘And a second mortgage to pay the airfreight. Besides, this way, you get the scenic route. Let’s get you loaded up. Got a full trip going over.’

The cavernous interior of the vessel, once designed to carry army tanks on shore, is empty save for a single row of nylon-webbed seats bolted to both sides of the hull.

‘Looks like you’ve got plenty of room,’ I say.

‘For now. But when those movie folks show up, it’s going to be a zoo.’

‘Movie?’

Two hours and three coffees later, two beat-up U-Haul trucks answer my question as they back up to the dock, followed by a string of cars out of which piles a chattering, laughing, smiling, sun-glasses-covered mob of young men and women, plus a gaggle of older folks tagging behind like nervous chaperones on a senior class trip to New York City.

‘Hi, Bo! Whadd’ya’ know, Bo?’ and ‘What ho, Bo!’ greetings buzz into the humid air like happy bees as the actors and actresses surround the captain, who takes it all in with a grand sense of
noblesse oblige
.

‘What’s the movie this time?’ he says.

‘
Devil’s Bay
.’

‘Horror or thriller?’

One of the young men stiffens, sticks out his arms and staggers around like a zombie. ‘Undead, undead!’

‘How long you there?’

A beautiful young blonde dressed in impossibly short, shorts says in a whispery Marilyn Monroe voice, ‘Ten days principal photography. Four, second unit, providing everybody learns their lines instead of drinking all night, right kids?’

A howl of protest rises from the group, but she ignores them and turns to the crew unloading the rental trucks. ‘Last on, first off, Jimmy. Make sure the lab set stays in front. And lash the camera cases on top of the C-stand cases.’

‘Got it, Ellie.’ Jimmy salutes briskly, while his co-worker stares at her like the
Playboy
foldout she resembles.

She breezily ignores his leer and turns back to the group of actors. ‘Don’t just stand there, kids, let’s off-load!’

At the sound of her sharp, authoritative voice, what was a jovial gang becomes an orderly parade of actors and stage hands lugging scenery flats, props, costumes and mysterious crates and cases of camera gear onto the landing craft and securing them.

I learn from Bo that these are the
Port Players
, a repertory company formed by Eleanor Whitney, the
Playboy
fold-out-style film director now hefting a bundle of costumes on her shoulder like a bale of cotton and loading it onto the boat herself.

‘They sail over to Bermuda once a year to make an Indy movie,’ Bo continues. ‘Last year a spy film, year before, some detective thing. This time it’s zombies and monsters, at least based on that. . .’

He points to a green-scaled, reptilian-like costume with webbed feet and hands in the arms of one of the actors.

‘Two weeks shooting?’ I say. ‘That can’t come cheap.’

‘Her old man’s got money, she’s got ambition. Nice combination.’

‘Must be nice to have a husband like that.’

He grins. ‘Her old, OLD man. Her daddy’s swimming in offshore crude oil. Lots of it.’

By noon the LCT is fully loaded, lashed down and ready to shove off. Stacks of scenery flats, piles of camera gear, luggage, props, and mystery packages surround my
Ride the Titanic
cargo as though they’re old pals on a common journey.

I kneel down to inspect the lashings to make sure they’re still secure. A tan pair of legs with red-painted toenails sidles up to me and in a breathy voice says in a half-whisper. ‘Some kind of a machine inside?’

‘Just a model.’

‘Oh.’ A long pause. ‘Of what?’

I finish checking the lashings and stand. ‘Rather not say at the moment.’ I stick out my hand. ‘Mike Sullivan.’

Her handshake is cool, dry and strong. ‘Eleanor Whitney, but Ellie’s fine. I’m the producer and director of this gang of thieves masquerading as actors.’

‘You don’t look like any director I’ve ever seen. And I’ve known a few in my time.’

Her cornflower blue eyes widen. ‘You in the business?’

‘In a way, yes.’

‘Film?’

‘Entertainment. Rides. Theme parks. That sort of thing.’

‘Oh.’ Her eyes glaze slightly.

‘From what the captain tells me, you’re in the movie business.’

‘Bo brags on me because he likes my money – so does the Bahamian government. Every year my repertory company makes a film there. He hauls our sets for us. They tax my balls off – metaphorically speaking.’

‘Why go there?’

‘I’d lose even more money doing it stateside.’

A blast of the LCT’s horn silences any further questions and we get underway. Joe finds a seat near the rear of the craft and hunkers down, arms folded, eyes shut, trying to keep his composure. Ellie sees my look of concern, so I explain, ‘My father-in-law’s afraid he’ll get seasick. Even though he’s ex-Navy. Sort of embarrassing, you know.’

‘I didn’t think sailors got sick.’

‘Served on subs. Mighty smooth sailing down below.’

Ellie considers the slowly rising and falling sea. ‘Up here can get pretty rough. I hope not today, for his sake.’

For the first few hours of the journey, Ellie’s wish comes true as we glide across glass-smooth water with barely a swell. Her company of actors, being actors, don’t content themselves with being merely passengers. Within minutes, a few of them pull out guitars and their chorus of songs range from pop to country to folk in an endless, happy loop of contented people on a happy journey.

I sit beside Joe, who by now is actually humming along with one of the tunes.

I say, ‘They’re not half bad.’

‘Yeah, but all that good energy going straight down the theater toilet.’

‘Something wrong with being an actor?’

‘Something right about it?’

‘C’mon, you like movies, right?’

‘So?’

‘What do you think they use? Puppets? Hell no, they use actors like those folks right there. And we will too, for the green screen scenes we’re going to produce. ‘

‘Why not use live performers we do at Disney?’

For what seems the hundredth time, I patiently explain that using live actors during the ride will create a logistics nightmare once the ship sinks. Where to put them, how to keep track of them, how to keep them safe while submerged – just too complicated, too dangerous.

‘This isn’t
Dumbo the Flying Elephant
at Disneyland.’

‘Always loved that little grey guy.’