Laura returned from dinner. She had eaten a small, wood-fired margherita pizza from a small counter service restaurant on the deck level. She still couldn’t believe that someone had built a wood fired pizza oven to sit fifteen stories above the cold Pacific ocean. But the results were hard to argue with. It was crisp. The crust was artfully blistered and leopard-spotted with carbonized patches from the high heat. The basil and tomatoes were fresh and fragrant. Another mystery, after being at sea for a few days.
She had asked the chef. He had been launching small pies into the clay and brick behemoth with a large peel. But he had a minute to talk once they were done. The baking only took about 90 seconds. He handed them off to another cook, who sliced them with a flourish and a large polished mezzaluna. The chef had wiped his forehead and said that the tomatoes were loaded into the ship green, and ripened as they sailed, with ethylene gas. The basil was kept alive to be harvested in parts for sauces and pizzas. It was grown in small rock-wool plugs by some hydroponic farm, and kept fresh and growing in water. When they needed basil, parts were lopped off. That all felt a little bit morose. Being kept on life support to give up your limbs, bit by bit.
Francis hadn’t been kidding about whale watching. She had heard a murmuring on the deck about whales. A couple in teak lounge chairs had talked about it. Well, the much younger wife had anyway. The fossilized husband had just grunted, bloody Mary in hand.
She took off her blazer and her holster. She stashed her sidearm in the room pin-pad safe, and hung her blazer on a coat hook. She settled in to read her emails. Today, there was a flurry of activity about a new contract to provide a security detail for a controversial tech CEO. They had figured out the staffing levels and costs. Now, they had to send the contract back and forth between the legal departments for both companies. It was like a slow, boring tennis match. A serve: where should we arbitrate disputes? A volley: are these performance milestones adequate?
There were about 25 emails about his office. As in, his physical office. He wanted to stay in a 30th floor corner office with glass, to look over his kingdom. Or something. Laura insisted that he move to a ground floor office. What if he needed to be evacuated to a different location? Why take the risk of waiting for an elevator if a bad guy with a gun shows up? Ultimately, his insurance caught wind of it and settled the debate. They wouldn’t cover him if he was above the second floor.
There was a knock at the door. Laura shook her head to clear her mind. She opened the door, and there was Francis. He was still in a dark suit. He was holding the promised bottle of Chateauneuf-du-Pape Blanc, and two wine glasses in one hand. In the other, a plate with a wedge of Camembert, baguette, and a sliced peach. Around his neck, a large pair of binoculars. He looked uncharacteristically sheepish.
“Get in, Francis. We’re running a stakeout on some whales.”
He smiled. “I have snacks.”
“You understood the first rule of a stakeout: always bring snacks.” She held the door as he walked in. “We’re off to a good start.”
She slid the door to the balcony all the way open. The smell of salt water blew in on the cool air. It was evening, but still light. The sun was low. Francis carried the wine and cheese to the small teak balcony table. He fiddled with the controls on one of the teak lounge chairs, and adjusted it to sit upright. He perched on the side of the chair. Laura grabbed her jacket and the waiter’s corkscrew by her ice bucket.
She sat on the edge of the other lounge chair. She picked up the wine bottle and looked at it, appraisingly. “This is a solid bottle of wine, Francis. Thanks for sharing it. And solid work with the fruit and cheese.”
“Happy to. I don’t know the first thing about wine, though. Sadly. I feel like I should, working on a ship like this.”
Laura peeled the foil from around the cork. “Don’t stress about it. Seriously. The entry into wine knowledge should be through enjoyment and appreciation, not a fear of your own deficits.”
“That should be on a motivational poster.”
She tilted her head. “Ha ha, very funny. It’s the truth, though.” She screwed the corkscrew partially in. The bottle was cold in her hands, and covered in condensation. She levered out the cork with a quiet sound, and poured two glasses. “Take this wine. You can know the terroir, the unpronounceable name, and the backstory that white wines from this region are under-appreciated. Or, you can just drink the fucking thing.”
He sipped tentatively.
“Smelling anything?”
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
“I’m not sure. Fruit?”
“Definitely.” She took a long sniff. “Some stone fruit, a little bit of powdery floral, maybe a little pear.” She took a sip. “Taste anything that stands out?”
“Oh wow.” He said. “It’s acidic. Kind of like sour green apple candy.”
“Bingo. See? You’re up and running.” She leaned forward and sliced a small hunk of camembert. “Now try it with some cheese.”
He did the same. “Oh no. I could get used to this.”
“Right? This is a strong wine. It stands up against a heavy, runny cheese.” She plucked a slice of peach. “There’s a lot of stone fruit and almond in this wine, too. It’s great with peaches. They have the same kind of acidity and round fruit flavor. And besides, it’s a good break from fatty cheese.”
“Makes sense.” He turned around to sit forward in his deck chair. “How did you learn this much about wine, anyway?” He paused. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you aren’t old. And you don’t seem… pretentious.”
She turned in her chair, and looked at the ocean. “I spent a few years working in kitchens. One of my summers in college, I had the chance to stage in a very old school Parisian kitchen. They had a Michelin star.”
“Oh wow.”
“It sounds like an ‘oh wow,’ but sometimes it felt like more of an ‘oh shit.’ They worked you from 8am to 3pm, then from 5pm to about midnight.” She sipped slowly.
“Sounds like cruise ship hours.”
“Ouch. The kitchen was a brigade. So it was hierarchical, and it worked like a well oiled machine. A stage sounds fancy, but it’s really unpaid manual labor. You put in a few weeks of around the clock work, to hopefully impress one of the chefs. They generally don’t notice, though. A stagiaire is basically invisible. Or, you do it to put the name on your resume. So, you spend a few hours in the morning preparing a heap of onions and shallots. They have to be the exact right brunoise. Then, if a chef trusts you, you can crack lobsters for part of the day.”
“Why did you do it?”
“Well. I’d worked my way through school so far in kitchens. I’d done a lot. And put up with a lot. France is the mothership, if you’re cooking in a western kitchen. So, it seemed like the next step.” She sighed. “Anyway, they’d work you to the bone. This restaurant had a wine shop. One of the Chef-de-Partie brought a bottle of wine out for the afternoon break. We sat on upturned milk crates behind the kitchen drinking and talking about wine. He had a funny way of describing it. He said ‘we are crushed by the machine all day. Why not drink something a machine crushed for us?’”
“Wow.”
“Exactly. I spent the summer after that studying for the Sommelier exam. I made it to level 2.”
“How many levels are there?”
“Four. So, big deal right? But, I always thought there was a life for me selling wine. It’s my backup career.”
“Sure. But wait, weren’t you a cop?”
“That happened later. I got my degree in Political Science. No one really knows what to do with that degree. Even the professors. Or, especially the professors. There are no jobs, so you either keep studying and become a professor or do something completely different.”
“Well, being a cop is definitely different.”
“Very. But the weird thing is, the FBI recruits on campus a lot. A few of the three letter agencies do. Especially Poli Sci, History, and other degrees like that. They reached out to me before I graduated. Maybe there are enough true believers in the democratic system in a poli sci program.”
“And they know there aren't any jobs.”
She tipped her wine glass toward him. “That too.” She tore off a chunk of baguette and reached for another slice of camembert. “That’s a lot about me. What about you? How did you wind up here?”
He shrugged. “I wanted to travel. My family doesn’t have a lot of money. I took a Greyhound from the middle of nowhere farm country, Canada to Vancouver. I got on the ship there. After this Alaska season, I have the option to do a few caribbean routes in the winter.”
“How are the hours?”
“Terrible. It’s like 60-70 a week.”
“The pay?”
“I shouldn’t be telling you this.”
“It’s fine. I’m friends with the captain. I can find out anyway.”
“Oh God. I thought you were. That’s even worse.”
“No. I was an actual narc. But, I won’t narc.”
“Fine. You won’t be surprised. It’s awful. You basically get a free room, a tiny stipend, and some tips.” He looked up at the sky. “I don’t really know what my plan is. I’ve heard you can make a better living getting promoted into the entertainment team. But who knows.”
“So, it’s one of those things you can only do when you’re single and 20 years old?”
“Kind of like a stage in a restaurant.”
She laughed. “Touche.”
There were a few quiet moments. They could both hear the crashing of waves. Then, in the distance, there was a splash. Francis sat bolt upright. “I saw one!”
He snapped the binoculars to his eyes. Laura could see another splash. This one was closer. “Look a bit closer in, just saw another one.”
A third splash, right near the second. “There they are!” He laughed in excitement. “I can’t believe it every time. They’re amazing.” They could hear distant cheers from the nearby balconies.
He leaned forward and threw the loop for the binoculars over his head, then passed them to Laura. She raised them to her eyes, and adjusted the focus. She scanned for the water churned by the last jump. She caught an adult Orca jumping. She could see the spots of black and white, and water spraying from its blowhole. “Beautiful.”