All the Roadrunning

The passengers were being brutal, complaining non-stop about the excursions they had participated in earlier in the day.  Whether it was the sandwiches they were served or the broken compass on the catamaran which ‘posed a serious danger’ to their lives, you would have thought that Tortola more closely resembled a war-torn wasteland than a beautiful tropical island.  The line of angry guests wrapped half way around the circular Grand Lobby of the ship and every single one of them seemed to have their arms crossed, waiting for their turn to unleash their frustrations on myself and my two colleagues. 

After almost two hours of standing at the counter of our Tour Office on board the Queen Mary 2, listening and nodding and forcing myself to smile, my feet hurt and I just wanted to take a break.  But that was simply not possible, as there was no indication that the line of guests was about to shorten any time soon.  By this point, my face no longer hid the frustration it held, my replies grew shorter and blunter, my willingness to repeat the same answers over and over again rapidly faded. 

But then, just as I began the old ‘questioning what I am doing here’ routine, I heard a voice, one that was heavily-accented, of European descent, of a female, an oddly familiar yet not too familiar voice. 

“Hello, is this the place to book a private tour of St. Lucia?” was all it said.   

I looked straight in front of me, I glanced to the left and to the right, but I could not find a person anywhere in sight whose voice could have sounded like this.   There were mostly men, angry men, standing in line and the only woman in the vicinity was speaking to my colleague in an unmistakably Long Island accent.  I stood there intrigued and confused. 

And then I heard the voice one more time.  Suddenly, a small hand and then a thin arm slowly rose up over the counter, offering itself to me in greeting.  I leaned over as much as possible, wanting to know who this arm and hand and voice belonged to.  Instantly, I recognized the smiling person in front of me, even before she spoke again.   

“Hello, my name is Dr. Ruth,” she said. 

All of the day’s problems immediately disappeared as I soon found myself sitting in the lobby organizing Dr. Ruth’s private tours and listening to her tell amusing stories about her travels and her work while offering an endless stream of sexual jokes.  Barely a minute would go by without her bursting into a fit of laughter, causing myself and everyone else in the area to join in.  After this initial meeting I found myself in a wonderful mood for the remainder of the voyage, drawing from the unwavering positive energy Dr. Ruth naturally projected.

 Over the next week, she requested to meet me every morning at 8am (not in that way!) in the Grand Lobby so that we could re-confirm her plans for the day.  I would then escort her off the ship and to her waiting vehicle in each port of call.  And as she also requested, when her private tours returned to the pier, there I would be, waiting to accompany her back onto the vessel.  She even gave me the nickname of “Bodyguard”, a title that brought with it a significant amount of teasing from many of the other crew on board.  But I knew that they were simply jealous, wishing that they could be the ones walking around the ship arm in arm with this famous therapist.   

Dr. Ruth often pulled me along the corridors as the speed with which she took her tiny strides outpaced my normal walking pace.  She stopped every few seconds, generously accommodating every photo or autograph request while handing out bright yellow key chains that stated “Sex for Dummies” to every single person she came in contact with, both guests and crew members.   

On the final morning of her voyage, I brought Dr. Ruth through the immigration inspection on board the ship, having to convince her that it was acceptable for her to cut the line and proceed directly to the front.  As we passed the hundreds of waiting guests, she greeted every single one of them in her delightful voice, leaving smiles on the faces of all these people who would ordinarily have been quite upset in the midst of their long wait.  She tugged my arm, shouted “Derek, let’s go, let’s go, let’s go” and then she would stop to chat or sign her name.  This repeated itself several times before we finally arrived in front of the immigration officer.   

And then she handed over her passport and announced as loud as ever, “I am Dr. Ruth, nice to meet you” causing everyone in the room, including the officer, to crack a smile. 

Moments before she walked off the ship, Dr. Ruth gave me her business card and asked to have a photograph taken together with me.  She then gave me her home telephone number and told me to contact her the next time I was in Manhattan so that we could meet for lunch. 

I’ve been to New York City several times since but I have never called. 

So here I am today, another day at sea on the Atlantic Ocean, one that began exactly the same as all of the previous hundreds I have been a part of.  The morning hours passed by slowly as I communicated with tour operators about our upcoming calls to Southampton and Hamburg, organizing tours to Stonehenge, London and Berlin.     

After lunch I walked back up to my office, wondering what kind of emails I would have to answer and what problems I would have to resolve.  Dreading the upcoming afternoon hours, I rested my hand on the doorknob before entering.     

“Derek!” I suddenly heard.  And there she was again, Dr. Ruth Westheimer, psychosexual expert, there to save the day one more time.  

This entry was posted on Wednesday, July 23rd, 2008 at 2:49 pm and is filed under Return to Ship Life. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.