The Travels and Travails of a Troubador

The argument of the night: should we play "My Heart Will Go On". Three months sailing the Atlantic as a musician on the MS Maasdam and the music was monotonous. It was during Pachabel’s Canon, played for the upteenth time, that we engaged in a heated debate. The pros won, and I began to imagine myself corseted on the great Titanic, red curls blowing in the wind, my skin a consumptive pallor.
Swaying to the music with a passion that most likely resembled an epileptic fit, we wore expressions of the utmost agony. “Oh, Jack!” I whimpered mid-phrase.
But just as we reached the climax, a huge wave hit our boat. My music stand tipped dangerously, and as we struck the last chord it became apparent that we had sailed into a storm. The ship heaved and groaned as it hit an even bigger wave, and then came the awful plummeting and sickening crack of the ship falling 40 feet and smacking the water below. My stomach turned.
“She’s going to spew,” our violist observed unhelpfully.
As another wave hit, I felt impending nausea and wobbled across the hallway. Hugging the wall, I made it to the crew staircase and grabbed both rails shakily. Swaying to and fro as the waves dictated, I managed to stumble down the sterile stairs to my cabin and into bed.
The ship heaved and I didn’t have the energy to groan. Instead a strangled sound like a cat being rung by its neck escaped my throat and the next second I found the entire contents of my dinner spewed into a bag. Death was imminent. How else could one explain the ominous cracking sounds below? The musicians on the Titanic died elegantly, playing as they sunk into the Atlantic. Huddled in my bed and heaving up everything, it was clear I would not be as graceful.
I didn’t die that day but my Titanic dreams did. When every one emerged from their cabins 48 hours later, it was with ashen faces. Only one passenger seemed keen on the experience exclaiming, “I lost five pounds from puking!”
I glanced at my good friend, Ivan, from Indonesia. He worked on ships so he could send his family money for basic survival. Food was not a luxury his family could afford to throw up. His face clouded and then broke into a smile as he handed a client an elaborate cocktail. Musing on Ivan’s good nature in the face of gross behavior, I took out my violin.
So ended our adventure with Irene and we picked up our instruments to once more play Canon. As my quartet struck the first chord, the familiar tune did not seem quite as irksome as before.