Royal Clipper: Pirate Night — Thursday, April 15, 2010, evening
Robert lifts his empty glass to show he managed to drink an inch of water with a holey straw during Pirate Night celebrations.
Those who have made the crossing before came prepared with pirate hats, striped shirts, tattered leggings, and scarves. One woman has a fake parrot perched atop a finger of her right hand. I happened to have a gold bandana. Pablo, my cabin steward, has loaned me a foam saber with an orange-and-green hilt.
In the open-air Tropical Bar, Ximena calls for five contestants to play pirate games. Three jump to join in. No one else, not even those dressed for the occasion, move. Ximena calls my name, and I step forward. Then, another man rounds out the five.
The first game is a test of strength: to hold a diving belt with 5 kilograms of weights at arm’s length. The first to falter is out. Ximena counts to three in English, and we raise our arms. The contestant next to me, Uschi, is a woman at least two decades younger than I and strong. Her belt has less weight than that of the rest of us, all men. I look to the right and the left; these guys, Paul, Ronald, and another man I didn’t get to know, are all bigger than I, their biceps larger by quite a bit. I will have to rely on breathing and willpower if I am to prevail. Right. Tell that to my quivering arm. But, just as I think I can’t hold out a moment longer, Paul drops his arm; he is out. My arm drops immediately afterward, but I am still in the game.
The second contest requires a blindfold, and there is talk of walking the plank. Instead, each of us is handed a string to which a pencil is attached at the opposite end. A narrow-neck wine bottle is stood upright near our feet. Art, a man from the audience who I had not yet met, comes forward to be my partner. My role is to follow his instructions as he tells me to raise the string, move it right or left or forward or back, then lower it. The deck sways beneath our feet. I can feel wind blowing across the deck. This is not skill but pure luck. When my pencil drops into the wine bottle, I can’t feel it enter. But Art tells me to let go of the string, and I do. I listen, blindfolded. Two others are still striving to accomplish the feat. I am the second to have done it. I have survived to play another round.
The third contest is a race from a chair on one side of the deck, around a chair on the other side of the deck, back to the first chair—with an inflated balloon between our knees. If we drop the balloon or touch it after the race begins, we have to return to the starting chair and begin again. Ximena counts to three in Spanish, and we begin. I start by hopping but don’t like the jarring effect, so I waddle forward. The other two contestants, Uschi and Ronald are ahead of me. But Uschi drops her balloon. Then does Ronald. I am in the lead and round the chair on the other side of the deck as they go back to start over. The balloon feels comfortable between my legs. My confidence grows. I pick up speed, rhythm, waddle. I cruise into the finish line, the only contestant to not retreat and begin again. After dropping his balloon three times, Ronald comes in second. Uschi is eliminated.
David, a member of the ship’s Sports Team, pours about one inch of water into a pair of short cocktail glasses, making sure that each has the same amount. He sets a straw in each glass. Ximena explains that the winner of this contest will be the person who can drink the water in the glass, through the straw, first. Ronald and I turn toward each other. This looks too easy. David hands us the glasses. “You can’t touch the straw,” Ximena instructs. The wind is blowing the straw around in the glass; the first challenge will be to secure it between my lips. Ximena counts to three in German. I suck on the straw; practically no water reaches the top. “The straws have little holes,” Ximena tells the audience, now laughing. “It is a matter of who has the best lungs,” she says in her Mexican accent. With that, I realize that I am bent over the glass, so I stand taller, taking a deeper breath and bringing a greater volume of water to my mouth. I draw again and again and again. The level in the glass is going down—slowly. I draw again and again and again. The last few drops remain. I know that Ronald is beside me, but I think not of him and only of the force of my inhalation. The last of the water disappears from my glass; it is in my mouth. I swallow. I raise my arm high in front of me and upturn the glass. Not a drop falls out. The crowd applauds. My victory is secure.
Ximena tells me that my prize is either the drink of the day from the Tropical Bar or a Royal Clipper keychain. I choose the keychain, a memento of this victory at sea.
