Cruising

In any kind of linear fashion, this story is boring. I was on a boat. Huzzah. I rejected taking an unreliable bus for 2 days down an unpaved road for 140 dollars, and instead took a junky boat for 4 days through tight channels for 400 dollars.

This cruise, I mean ferry, I mean cargo ship, could not have been any more spartan. A bare cafeteria served its pretty tasty but highly repetitious meals only during tight and unflinching meal times, and there was no other food to be had. There was a bar, with predictably overpriced beer and awkwardly rigid chairs. On the back was a large open space with a giant chess board no one used. Entertainment consisted mostly of booze and cards, occasionally punctuated by an older man singing Frank Sinatra covers with an electric keyboard and bizare latino twist, and once by a bingo game followed by a 'Best of the 70s' dance party. It was almost always cloudy. Rain came surreptitiously, randomly, and often.

Yet, these seemingly bland days of transit were, collectively, one of the most memorable experiences in South America.

Now, here's the hard part. How can I possibly express the intangibles of this? Laying on my bed, chatting with my unseen roommate on the bunkbed above me, carefully articulating our arguments for over an hour about whether jello is a solid or a liquid, and if a liquid, whether it counts as a non-Newtonian fluid. It's a solid, under certain parameters. Ben and I spent countless otherwise-empty minutes and hours crossing swords over bizarre and seemingly inane aspects of physics and engineering, and loved every second. A British navy sailor getting a full ride to Cambridge, Ben was both tough and brilliant, and the two of us connected in strange ways cooped up in this metallic bubble from the world.

Ben was probably the most fun, but hardly the only one. Pete and Jan were a cross-Atlantic couple (Britain and New York) who were also drawn to our table. eager to pick up our knowledge on South America and possibly come with us. Mike and Tim were a pair of freshly-minted college grads coming from some obscure college in northern California, egging us on to try new treks (anyone wanna do the PCT with me?) and antsy to get their feet moving into Torres del Paine. Like some clump of cosmic gas, we drew more matter into us until we all squeezed and burst into nuclear fire. The cruise was not just about the foreign land outside our portholes, but random strangers linking together from the common bonds of being lost down here.

One wasnt a stranger. Martin had come down from Valparaiso, and had come to join me on this cruise and Paine hike after. I'll never really understand how I connect so well with a 40-something South African gay introspective accountant, but I do. Over a bottle of wine (bought by him, drank mostly by me), we could giggle like children well into the evening. As the booze flowed farther, Martin would make more and more sexually suggestive innuendos, though I cant figure out if he's just loosening up some or if he figures I'm loosening up more. I don't really mind, since I've never had a gay friend who hasn't made a pass at me at some point. It's worth smiling and taking it (the jokes, people) to keep it well lubricated (the friendship). These recurring faces give a sense of stability and do wonders to dampen my mental storms.

Also, I needed Martin's moral support. Ever since my rejection of Artie's advances (remember him?), I've remained happily celibate in South America. Sex never even crossed my mind during Ecuador or Peru, mostly because I was ill and depressed. In Bolivia, I was too damn busy. Nobody attractive in Atacama. The issue only first returned to mind in Mendoza, where the punkish American girl who encouraged me to get a tattoo made my mind bend in slightly prurient directions. We hit it off well, but she was entirely to caught up by the novelty of foreign men to consider a fellow Yankee. Still, the seed was planted. Pucon had its share of attractive women, but none who I met more than in passing. It wasnt until I got on the boat, that insular metal bubble, that things could come to a head.

Not that one could have sex on these boats. The beds were small, narrow, and uncomfortable. And they were bunkbeds, where any headboard banging would result in head smashing. The cabins were freezing during the day and broiling at night. Even if you could work out the logistics, sex was hardly possible with 3 roommates. And people in these cabins were the lucky ones; an equal number of beds were placed out in the open halls. I suspect the best place on this boat to try it would be down in the cargo hold, in between the cow trailers, in ankle-deep mystery fluid.

Anyway. This boat was confined quarters, a captive audience, a few days to ferment, and nothing to do. It didnt take long for me to meet Amelie, a French girl in her late 20s with an insistance that she was still as young and fun as me. She was beautiful, and a skilled tango dancer, which made her seeming interest in me inexplicable. We talked aimlessly; I waited for her to get bored and leave, but she only seemed to get more interested in what I had to say, and stayed planted in her seat until it was me who finally left. Not that I would've even known how to seal the deal with a woman like this anyway. I retreated, no sugar coating.

I found her the next day just as absorbed in conversation at the bar with another guy. Ben. Sure I was jealous, but how was I supposed to compete with a sailor and avowed world-trekker? Well, I couldn't. Nor could he compete the next day with a transplant from Spain who could match her tango for tango. Nor could he compete with some old dumpy dude coincidentally also from the same region of France. No, we quickly realized, she wasn't interested in any of us. Amelie was just a nice, pleasant girl who loved the attention of men without ever putting out. And god bless her for that. Everybody else on the boat thought she was a tease by the end, but I knew better. She was just enjoying herself in a different but fundamentally similar way as me. Plus, she taught me tango and helped me practice charming beautiful women, so I really cant resent her at all.

Martin too opened up his charm wallet, but had his eye set on one of the seemingly inordinate number of gay couples. Not as a home wrecker, you understand, but simply as a side dish. I've come to understand, if not entirely accept, that gay couples are a bit more fluid like that. Non-Newtonian. Either way, I decided to help him, partially out of the hope he would stop his innuendos, but mostly out of genuine friendship. I introduced him to the concept of wingmanship by striking up conversation with one, then bailing before they try and pull me into some warped fourgy. Sadly, he too found his interest only wanted friends without benefits.

Since Quito, I've retreated into some form of purified heterosexuality, not visiting gay bars or really talking to gay people, and have really only had eyes for attractive women (when I've had any eyes at all). Joining the hunt with Martin reminded me of the scent of a kill. Not every gay boy here was in his middle age, as Joe was 20, from St. Louis, and had unsettling resemblence to other gay boys I've known. He too shared Amelie's appearance of a blank cheque, but I know gay boys better. I went for him, hard. (stop finding innuendos that arent there) I likely could have too, if he didn't get ill on the last night. But the damage was done. This cruise had gotten me in touch with my baser core, propping up my hetero and jumpstarting my homo. What this means for Buenos Aires and a tawdry New Years remains to be seen.

This cruise didn't have any structured entertainment because it was meant to be introspective. We were meant to bond with our fellow passengers, in whatever strange ways we wanted. We were meant to sleep long hours, read long books, and take our sweet time in giant chess. We were meant to sit and stare as solemn peaks went by, their snowcapped heads in the clouds and their feet at the water's edge. This place was something special, the third time I've been bowled over by a place in the natural world this month. But I won't even try to express this in words. I tried, and naturally failed, to capture it with my camera lens. Just know that's how it was.

And yet, natural beauty and human sparks aside, the greatest moment occured when I was alone and couldn't see shit. It had been raining all day, and everyone retreated inside. Except me, I'd spent too much of the day cooped up in my bed. I donned my pants and a raincoat, grabbed my ipod, and ran outside. I stood on the bow for awhile, listening to my favorite songs, recreating a moment from the Great Barrier Reef, when I decided to take a walk. The boat wasn't big, and I made a lap in just a minute. So I moved onto another deck and went around again. And again. The boat lurched, and I lurched with it. I spread my arms to keep balance and moved faster. Puddles soaked my shoes through. No matter, go faster. I ran dangerously, swooped, dove, and flew. Singing and dancing in the rain, when was the last time I'd done that? Everyone watched me from through the portholes, confused but smiling and jealous. We were in Patagonia now. All rules suspended, all bets are off. The score reset. I was going to have fun any way I could, and I could only hope to lead by example. I did.