The Purser

A Story of Life Aboard a Cruise Ship

by

Walter Aschiero

Discover the most intimate secrets
of life aboard a cruise ship.
Take part in the daily activities
of the officers and crew.
Meet the passengers who become
part of the ship's lore.


Experience life at sea!

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C O N T E N T S

Welcome Aboard

Those Guided by Courage

Greek Indians and Australian Pharaohs

Does the Crew Live Aboard?

Life at Sea is the Only Life

A Day in St. Thomas with Drills and Leather Whips

The Queen of the Amazons

Stowaways and Hussies

La Donna è Mobile

Departing Nassau

The Officers’ Mess

The Mercenary and the Field Marshal

A Cruising Affair

The River and the Prairie

Children of Yemanja

Back to Sea

Glossary of Nautical Terms

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FIRST CHAPTER

Welcome Aboard

“We arrive in Miami tomorrow morning,” said Chief Purser Mike Riso calling me from the M/S Olympia. “We’ll dock at daybreak and depart at five in the afternoon. If you can make it aboard you’re hired.”

I had been applying for employment with hotels, airlines, cruise lines—companies that might give an opportunity to a recent college graduate with a degree in modern languages. So far I had received an offer from a hotel in Venice and had scheduled an interview with an airline in Milan, but nothing could compare with being a purser aboard a cruise ship. It would be great for a couple of years, I thought, do some traveling, then come back and get a real job. 
“I see you’re Italo-American,” said the chief purser.

“Sort of, I was born in New York City and brought up in Verona.”

“That’s original, usually it’s the other way around. I’m part Italian myself, with some Irish thrown in for good luck. I can speak Italian, but down here I need someone who speaks Spanish or Portuguese. My cadet jumped ship in Rio. Left behind his passport, his pay, his suitcase, went to live with a woman old enough to be his mother. I can’t blame him. She could’ve driven a cardinal to perdition.”

I asked if desertion was a common problem—fearing conditions aboard ship.

“No,” said Mr. Riso, “only in Rio. They go ashore and stay there.”

“What’s your itinerary?” I asked.

“Eastern and Western Caribbean from Miami, with an occasional cruise to South America, that’s where we’re coming from now. You’ll like it down here, good weather, great beaches…”

It was early December. The first advance of the winter fog had settled over Italy’s northern plains, once again besieging Verona, gradually conquering the city walls, taking over her piazzas, her ancient bridges, her medieval towers. Looking out from my window above Via Carducci, I could hear footsteps on the stone sidewalks, but I couldn’t see the people. The streets, the hills, the countryside, everything had disappeared into the mist. Even the River Adige, its cold waters running low and silent, seemed to have vanished. What could be better than trading a European winter for the sun and the beaches of South America and the Caribbean?

“You don’t need to bring much,” said the chief purser. “We provide the uniforms. You can buy white shoes in Miami.”

I had a pair of white shoes in my boat on Lake Garda and had recently bought a new suitcase.

“What do you say? Think you can grab your toothbrush and make it down to Miami by tomorrow afternoon?”

I flew out of Milan that same evening and was standing at the wharf the following morning early enough to see Olympia steaming into port. She was a small white ship. She approached slowly, gliding silently over the calm waters of the channel, her hull reflecting the rays of the rising sun. I could hear the deck crew speaking English with a multitude of accents. The mooring lines were cast ashore. She was made fast fore and aft.

Chief Purser Riso was the first to set foot on the wharf. He had the body of a boxer and the face of a legionnaire. “You’ve made it!” he said, grabbing my hand and nearly shaking my arm off. He led me up the gangplank to the main lobby and the purser’s office. “This is where we work, small and crowded so we can get on each other’s nerves.”

“Yes, sir,” I answered, not knowing what else to say.

He handed me a deck plan. “Go to the tailor’s,” he told me, “he’ll give you the uniforms. And get yourself some breakfast. We’re expecting a full ship, eight hundred passengers. You’ll start off checking passports.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Sure thing,” said Riso. “Hey, I’m glad you made it!”

I grabbed my suitcase and headed for the tailor’s on B deck. Mr. Kim, a small, well-mannered Korean, gave me the uniforms. He didn’t take any measurements. He could tell my size just by looking at me. I then walked up the crew stairs to the bridge deck. The cabins for cadets were clustered around the funnel-well on a dark corridor aft of the radio room. They were small. Mine was furnished with a gray metal locker and a narrow bed. No portholes for cadets, those cabins were reserved for full officers. The only source of light was a florescent tube attached to a bare metal bulkhead. I didn’t mind. I didn’t plan on spending too much time inside the cabin.

I put on my white pants and shoes, white shirt, white belt with gold buckle, slid the epaulets into the shoulder tabs and went for a walk around the ship. I found the John Cabot Theatre, the Portofino Dining Room, the walnut paneled Hemingway Library with its exhibition of prints of Africa and Spain, the Yacht Club Lounge with the vaulted ceiling over the dance floor and the white marble fountain presided over by a statue of Neptune. I was greeted by passengers and crewmembers. I felt proud, proud of my ship and proud of my uniform. Then I walked into the officers’ mess and saw twenty guys wearing epaulets with more stripes. I sat at a corner table, trying not to make eye contact with anyone, not knowing whether I should be saluting or standing at attention.

The officers’ mess consisted of a small dining room and an adjoining lounge area. The walls were decorated with photographs of famous training ships: the U.S. Coast Guard Barque Eagle, the Juan Sebastián Elcano of the Spanish Naval Academy, the Danmark of the Danish Merchant Marine, the Skoleskibet Georg Stage, also from Denmark, the Argentine Navy’s Libertad. One of the walls was covered with a map of the world as it was known in the early 1500's. Cuba was thought to be somewhere near Japan. The only known America lay south of the Equator—it was labeled America Papagalli Terra.

A tall, hardy-looking four-striper approached me. “Hello,” he said. “I’m the captain. You must be the new purser, yes?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, standing up and shaking a sturdy hand, “Marco D’Angelis.”

“I saw you from the bridge as we were docking. She’s a pretty sight, isn’t she?”

“Yes, sir, I was impressed.”

Another four-striper was sitting at a nearby table eating black olives. He was a stocky fellow with a thick mustache and hairy arms. “Cut out the yessir!” he hollered. “This ain’t the freaking navy!”

“Mr. Pirounakis,” said the captain over his shoulder, “try not to speak with your mouth full.” Then he whispered to me, “That’s the chief engineer, shortest man aboard, and the loudest.”

“I hear he’s a wop!” said the loudmouth.

“He’s Italian,” answered the captain, “just like me.”

The captain didn’t look Italian, but appearance alone is no proof of nationality. Not all Italians have curly black hair. He could have been a Lombard, an ethnic German from the Trentino, a Valdese from Calabria, a Sicilian of Norman descent, or simply a tall, blond specimen from anywhere in Italy. His accent didn’t tell me much either—an accent product of speaking several languages, all of them well, none like a native. After a lifetime abroad, sailors speak even their own language with a foreign accent.

“Are you Italian?” I asked.

“I am now. We all are! Strom’s my name, originally from Norway. The chief engineer came to us from Greece. Some of these other men were once Swedish. But our cook is from Napoli and after so many years eating spaghetti we’ve changed nationality!”

Everyone laughed. “Can I say an Italian joke?” asked a large, bull-necked engineer with reddish hair.

“Not till I run out of Swedish jokes,” answered the captain. “Now, let me introduce you to our little family.”

He introduced me to the ship’s doctor, the security officer, a deck cadet, the chief steward, the technicians and engineers. “Konstantinos Pirounakis, Chief Engineer,” said the loudest man aboard as we shook hands. “Dino to my friends, and I don’t make friends with pursers.”

“Mr. Pirounakis,” said the captain, winking at me, “not everyone can be an engineer. Someone must do the boring paperwork.”

“All right, all right,” said Pirounakis, “sit down and have some olives. You do like Greek olives?”

“Best in the world!” I said.

“Strom, you hear that? Kid knows what he’s talking about!”

“I’m sure he does. It didn’t take him long to figure you out.”

“How’s your name again?” asked Pirounakis.

“Marco D’Angelis.”

“Anghelis … Anghelides … Anghelakis … must be of Greek extraction.”

It isn’t, but I saw no reason to contradict him. He asked me if I spoke Greek.

“Kaí bébaia,” I answered, which in Greek means “of course.”

“Good,” said the captain. “You can translate for us when the chief loses his temper.”

“Makes me wonder, though,” said Pirounakis. “Is he a seaman or just another malakas tourist?”

“I’m the new cadet purser,” I answered, confused by the question.

“That tells me your job,” said Pirounakis, “not your profession. A seaman loves the sea. He would do no other type of work. A tourist, he’s here for the sightseeing. Seamen we welcome aboard. Tourists we keelhaul.”

Faced with such a clear choice, I promptly answered, “I’m a seaman!”

“Excellent!” said the captain. “Welcome aboard!” 

That was eight years ago. The years have passed. I don’t know how. I hadn’t planned on remaining so long. I joined the Olympia with the intention of doing some traveling. After a while the ship became my home. I came as a tourist. I became a seaman.

END OF CHAPTER ONE

The Purser is now available on the Amazon Kindle.

Or download The Purser to your PC.

___________________

Although based on real events, this is a work of fiction.
Characters are either product of the author’s imagination or, if real,
used fictitiously without any intent to describe their actual conduct.

Copyright © 2008, 2009 by Walter Aschiero

All rights reserved.

THE PURSER'S
GLOSSARY OF NAUTICAL TERMS

(Print it and take it with on your next cruise.) 

AFT: In, at, or toward the rear of the ship.

AMIDSHIPS (or MIDSHIP): In, at, or toward the middle of the ship.

BEAM: The width of the ship at its widest point.

BOATSWAIN: (pronounced bosun) Chief petty officer responsible for the ship’s deck crew.

BOW: (pronounced to rhyme with “now”) The forward end of a ship.

BRIDGE: The ship’s command center, sometimes referred to as the pilothouse or wheelhouse.

BRIDGE WINGS: Observation platforms that extend from both sides of the bridge.

CONN: To direct the course of a ship (from the Latin conducere).

CROW’S-NEST: The lookout’s platform on a ship’s mast.

DRAFT: The depth of a ship below the waterline.

FANTAIL: Overhanging part of a deck at the stern of the ship.

FORE (or FORWARD): In, at, or toward the front of the ship.

GALLEY: The ship’s kitchen.

GROSS TONNAGE: The amount of usable space enclosed within a ship. It is a measure of volume, not weight, and is expressed in units of 100 cubic feet (2.83 cubic meters).

KNOT: A unit of speed. It equals one nautical mile per hour. The term derives from an early method of calculating the speed of a ship. Sailors used to tie a piece of wood, called a chip log, to a line that had been knotted at equal intervals. When the chip log was thrown overboard the line began to unreel. The speed of the ship was then determined by counting the number of knots that had unreeled in a given amount of time. Tip: Don’t say “knots per hour”; that would be like saying “nautical miles per hour per hour.”

LATITUDE: The distance north or south of the equator, measured in degrees comprised of sixty minutes, each minute being equal to approximately one nautical mile; therefore, one degree of latitude equals approximately sixty nautical miles. Lines of latitude run parallel to the equator.

LEEWARD: Away from the wind. The direction opposite that from which the wind is blowing. The side that is sheltered from the wind.

LONGITUDE: The distance east or west of the prime meridian in Greenwich, England. Longitude is measured in degrees. One degree of longitude equals sixty nautical miles at the equator and decreases north and south of the equator until it becomes zero at the poles.

M/S: Motor ship, a ship powered by diesel engines.

NAUTICAL MILE: A unit of length. It measures 6,076 feet (1852 meters) and equals approximately one minute of latitude. It is 796 feet (243 meters) longer than a land mile, which measures 5,280 feet (1609 meters). A nautical mile is commonly defined as being equivalent to 1.15 land miles.

PORT SIDE: The left side of a ship. The term derives from an early custom of docking a vessel with its left side facing the wharf to prevent damage to the steering board, which was generally located on the vessel’s right side (see STARBOARD). Gradually, the left side of the ship became known as the port side—the side facing the port. I give passengers the following mnemonic: Remember “port” is “left” by keeping in mind both words have four letters.

RADIO ROOM: The ship’s communications center, staffed by personnel called radio officers.

S/S: Steamship, a ship powered by steam turbine engines.

STARBOARD: The right side of a ship. The term possibly originated with the Vikings. The early Viking longships were steered with an oar, or board, attached to the right side of the vessel. Thus, the right side gradually became known as the side of the “steer board.”

STERN: The rear end of a ship.

TENDER: A boat that takes passengers or supplies between a ship and shore, or between ships.

WINDWARD: Into the wind. The direction from which the wind is blowing. The side that is exposed to the wind.