The Boat

A trawler docked next to ours one early morning…same length at 90 feet but that is where the similarities ended. Plenty of elbow grease went into ours, that would be our own elbow grease, theirs on the other hand, had an extensive crew who, when they were not hosting a fiesta, saw to rigorous routines of serious buffing and polishing and that was only what we could see from the outside. We were ofcourse longing to see what was going on on the inside.  We’d been told by the Dock Master that the elegant vessel was owned by a well to do German divorcee and was conducting a world tour tracing each continent whilst doing research on sharks. Ok now we were even more curious to get on board…but how? As luck would have it, I was coming down our gang plank one afternoon just as Madame boat owner was coming down hers.  She was in clear discomfort as she hobbled with the aid of two crew members. We greeted each other and she explained that she had broken her toe and was going to trek into town to see a local doctor…which in this particular country could be something of an adventure. My beau, who owned our boat, was a doctor and willingly offered assistance seeing handily to her aching toe.  She was profusely grateful and issued us an invitation to dinner that night on her vessel. We accepted in a heartbeat with unabashed and overly enthusiastic teenage glee. 

At the appointed hour we asked permission to come aboard.  Her ship did not disappoint. The hot and cold running crew was a far cry from the scruffy two of us, an occasional three, manning ours. Enroute to the dining room we were escorted through their research command center which sported every known gadget to seek and study the lions of the seas. Her expedition guests were an awesome gathering of scholars, scientists and artists alike. Conversation sparkled. Chef attended the first course, describing the delectables we were about to ingest. The finest of wines complemented each course. After the main course had been cleared, the crew lined up smartly to introduce themselves; stateroom maids, engineers, right the way up to the Captain. Our hostess nodded approvingly and segued neatly over desert into the upcoming weeks’ running order of the day.  They would set sail predawn to a given destination known for sharks. All guests would be invited for a dive, followed by a buffet luncheon and a second optional dive in the afternoon. Cocktails would be served at 7 PM followed by a lecture in rotation, given by each of the guests. The lecture would be followed by a dinner and no doubt robust conversations of the day’s findings and the lecturer’s revelations. It was heady…and yet the inklings of something that had begun to surface over the course of dinner started to shift the sands.  Something was amiss. 

Prompted by questions from my beau we had learned that our hostess’ father had been an art collector. That’s interesting, judging by her age, his young adulthood would have been right in the shank of World War II. We learned too that she had married into the Von Habsburg family, well known for many things, among them art collecting.  Shift. 

When questioned we learned that our hostess’ interest in the art world had been inspired by her father who had gathered his collection in Germany during the war and had initially been focused on landscapes she said with a gentle smile. Shift again. Even more suspicious, just after the war he had sold his apparently vast collection and with those monies had begun collecting works that were more to his liking. Vibrant artworks of the up-and-coming. Brock, Picasso. You know, the new kids. In the awful dawning of more than likely what had afforded this caviar and champagne atmosphere, we lost the thread of conversation.  This was poisoned food bought with ill begot gains. Every liquid on the table had become blood. Every tangible made of crushed body parts. I wanted to vomit. 

Of course what her father had done with the gains of selling his first “collection” after the war had been legal. There could be no recourse at this point except a moral, karmic one. But the initial collection? What Arian German male of means during the war was not collecting art that had not been stolen from the Jews? Eyes locked in tacit recognition. We excused ourselves and disembarked from the once enviable boat as quickly as we could. 

Just as their itinerary had promised, they were gone before we awoke. In the morning their slip stood empty, gone. Gone just as so much, was gone in World War II. It seemed appropriate, very, that the mission was to study sharks. Study her past. Study herself. Will that meal ever be digested? Eight years ago now…not yet. I do not think it will be. Ever.