Sailing into the sunset

On a cruise, hiding out from fellow passengers covered with American flag pins, my friend Buddy and I face the impending war. Part 1 of two parts.

By Anne Lamott

Mar 14, 2003 | When I am at my most exhausted, and unsound, empty and overwhelmed at the same time, I make a nest on the couch in the living room, with a comforter and pillows, magazines, cat, unguents, and cool drinks. I call this "the cruise ship." It is not the same as just stretching out on the couch with a book. It is more intentional, a psychiatric Sabbath, saved for end-of-the-rope unwellness. I know I need the cruise ship when my hypochondria reaches a certain level, and I develop the symptoms of phlebitis, heart cancer, diverticulitis, or start trying to decide whether to have an elective colostomy. Exasperation is another symptom, especially toward myself, about my ineptness, wickedness, laziness or, ironically, workaholism. It does not take Anna Freud to diagnose that I'm losing it: Once when Sam was young, we were racing toward a lecture I was late for and I was spilling papers and books and coffee. And this elfin voice behind me said, "You are going too fast, and carrying too much." I've remembered this many times. To go faster and get more done is to move in the direction of death. The cruise ship carries you back toward life.

I used to have to get sick to baby myself, and even then it could be dicey. I might have the flu, fever and aches, and yet somehow talk myself into getting up to clean the cat food crust off the placemat under the cat's dish. And if I do get up to do it, and am lightheaded from standing, my next thought might be, a brain tumor. A cerebral bleed.

The cruise ship is always inconvenient -- you have to set aside some time to do nothing, like two hours. You can't hurry doing nothing. And since spirit isn't about what you do -- God says, Be, be, be -- it works best when you're not doing anything at all.

But you'll get to see the sweetest thing of all, one person tenderly caring for another, even if it's crabby, mealy-mouthed you taking care of hysterical, shirking you. You take the action, and then the insight follows: Spirit heals spirit. Nothing besides kindness and quiet can realign and contain the chaotic, wailing, whining forces that pull us apart, that weaken us.

I pretend my old couch is a lounge chair on the top deck of a ship. The heater should be on low. Being warm in air or water is like being inside a great breathing being. It buoys you up gently, like an adult you trust when you're learning to swim, where, paradoxically, you have to rest down into the water to float.

But a couple of weeks ago, I did an astonishing thing: I got on an actual cruise -- the floating kind. It was an Italian liner, with 1,500 passengers, Fellini Satyricon meals, ice swan centerpieces, Internet cafes, stops in Caribbean ports. My son, his friend Alex and I went, the guests of a group that was taking 80 sober people on a cruise. I was one of two speakers, along with my Jesuit friend Father Tom, and his wonderful buddy, Buddy Kronberg.

We boarded in Ft. Lauderdale, Fla., and headed toward the east Caribbean. I was a wreck. Everyone was. But I am the world's worst traveler even under the best of circumstances. I am terrified of the impending war, and of snakes, sharks, undertows and group hugs. I am also afraid of VX gas attacks, huge amounts of food, and strangers wanting my e-mail address. I love to swim in warm seas but hate getting to them. I subscribe to the motto of travel agents Karl and Carl, "Trust no one; see nothing."

We sailed for the first two days, surrounded by seas of kindergarten blue. I found it rather peaceful, and Buddy was great company. He is in his mid-50s, and great looking, in a unique and sort of seedy way: He has gained a lot of weight since he quit smoking, and has flyaway hair like a newborn bird's and bright blue eyes. But the arresting thing about him is that he has two missing front teeth. He is a man of enormous intelligence and humor and has done well as a freelance computer genius. Everyone falls in love with him. For instance, Sam, who can be cool and distant these days, had a couple of meals with Buddy and then confided to me, rather mournfully, "I just love Buddy so much."

Buddy had not been on a boat since Vietnam, so he was a little tense about several things. He was afraid that the ship would tip over, he was worried that a revolution was brewing among the cabin help. And also, that John Ashcroft was spying on the three of us -- him, Tom and me -- as we grimly checked the news at the Internet cafe every few hours, expressing tiny opinions on George Bush's humanity, sobriety and deft diplomatic touch.

Buddy kept saying things like, "We need to be on the lookout for possible security breaches." And, "We should suck up to the captain." And, "The revolution is being led by unseen forces. In the boiler room." I got into the spirit of things, to take my mind off Iraq, North Korea and, mostly, Sam.

Sam was hanging out until all hours at the disco, with Alex. They were in a room across the hall, and had fallen in with a pack of roving teenage reprobates, who met every night near the Internet cafe to plan the evening's sorties. Sam is mostly sweet and funny and thinks I am hilarious, but sometimes an adolescent phantom uses Sam's body as a host. I call the phantom "Phil." He is full of contempt, boredom, secrets, poor judgment. Phil does not think I am funny. He thinks I am a moron. Friends who've had teenagers tell me to love and respect him enough to release him to the consequences of his actions, but some days go better than others. I wish I were God's Deputy Under Secretary Of How Everything Turns Out. But instead, I'm Mrs. Afraid.

Next Page: The sunbathers had lumps and veins and chicken-skin knees. They had huge guts, bad moles and flag towels

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