Lauren Roche
Photo by New Writers member Cathy Dee.
Lauren Roche began making friends and offering encouragement to others on her first day as a member of the New Writers’ List. She almost immediately submitted her work for critique and began providing critique and motivation to her co-members. Few days, if any, have gone by without an uplifting message from Lauren to someone else on the List. She displays a sense of wisdom, caring and understanding in her critiques and communication with other members.
Needless to say, we all have grown to appreciate and love her. She was worried about ‘fitting in’ when she first joined us. Her worries were needless, as we now can’t imagine the New Writers’ List without her. All groups have individuals who reach out to others and help hold the entire group together. Lauren is one of those individuals on the New Writers’ List.
An Interview with Lauren Lauren's Tip to New Writers Showcase of Lauren's Work Some of Lauren's Favorite Links
AN INTERVIEW WITH LAUREN ROCHE
HOW DO YOU FIND TIME TO WRITE?
Where do I find the time? Not too difficult at the moment, as I am having some time out from my 'real job' as a family doctor. I have trained myself to make time, aiming to spend at least three hours a day in front of the keyboard. One day, perhaps, writing will be my 'real job', and I'll be a hobby doctor...
HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN WRITING?
I have been writing seriously for only six months this time. I loved writing as a child and teenager, but was always a bit nervous about submitting my work for publication. From memory, most of the later stuff was the usual angst-ridden teen rubbish, but a high school English teacher told me I 'wrote like an angel', and this comment has stayed with me, and made me want to 'try again'.
WHEN DID YOU FIRST KNOW THAT YOU WANTED TO WRITE?
When I was six or seven I did a lot of creative writing at school, and my stories were often selected to be showcased in the school library a real honour at the time. I enjoyed the accolades I got for my writing, and thought this wouldn't be a bad thing to do forever. Later the self doubt that dogs all writers I know beat me down, and told me I'd never manage to support myself as a writer, so should give up immediately.
WAS THERE ANY PARTICULAR PERSON OR THING THAT INSPIRED YOU TO BE A WRITER?
The impetus to start again six months ago came from a prolonged period of deep depression, where I realised I had to exorcise some demons from my past. I began to write about them, and felt a bit better. This writing has now reached 61,500 words about the first 18 years of my life, and a few short bits of fiction.
WHO ARE SOME OF YOUR FAVORITE AUTHORS? WHY?
Favourite authors: Jeanette Winterson (especially 'Sexing The Cherry') for her beautiful use of language; Janet Frame - again for beautiful use of words. Tolkien - Lord of the Rings is wonderful, a whole new, and believable world, peopled by creatures you can care about. My all time favourite book is 'Geek Love' by Katherine Dunn. This is sick, irreverent, alternately very funny and heart-rending. A must read!!!!
TELL US SOMETHING ABOUT YOUR PUBLICATION HISTORY IF ANY.
Nothing published yet. I hope this will change in 1999, where I will, for the first time, attempt to get something in print. Hey, any of you publishers out there, wanna new writer on your books???
WHAT ARE YOUR GOALS AS A WRITER?
The Booker Prize, or the Nobel Prize for literature. No, really, to be able to write material that reaches and touches people. I want to be published, and reach a wider audience. And I would like to live to be at least 120, and supported by my kids :-)
WHAT DO YOU MOST ENJOY WRITING? WHY?
Communication and education are important to me, I hope some of my writing fulfils these goals.
WHAT DO YOU FIND MOST DIFFICULT TO WRITE? WHY?
I can't write flowery stuff. My work tends to be stark and to the point. I have to struggle to 'show' not 'tell', but I'm working on it.
I think the thing I hate most about writing is tHE CAPS LOCK KEY. iT ALWAYS Gets me wheN i LEAST EXPECT IT. :-/
WHAT DO YOUR FRIENDS AND FAMILY THINK ABOUT YOU BEING A WRITER?
My friends and family can see I'm happier and more relaxed when writing, so think it's great. They all hope it pays something one day, though. My son Paul wants me to earn enough from writing to buy an extra computer so he can play games while I write.
WHAT KIND OF ADVICE WOULD YOU OFFER A NEW WRITER?
Join a group - either locally or on the net. A place where you can learn how to hone your skills, how to critically appraise your own work and others. Submit your work for criticism, so you can see how a reader approaches your 'baby'. Very hard the first time or two, but very helpful and empowering.
HAVE SOME FUN!
PG-17 Language “Hello Muvver, my old trout.” Paulie greets me in his slow baritone.
His smile stretches at a leisurely pace, fattening his apple cheeks, and
pushing his smeary glasses a bit further up his nose.
One giant hand holds a new car –“an MG, Muvver, in British Racing
Green.” He pushes the car along the polished wooden benchtop, and
demonstrates its ‘awesome suspension’. He knows I’m a Philistine about
cars, but still patiently tries to explain their virtues to me.
“Come here, sweetheart, and give your old mum a hug.”
“O-kaayyyy. No kisses though Muvver – remember I am growing into a
man.” Paulie starts High School tomorrow, at 13, a year behind his
peers. He is already five inches taller than I am, and as he shambles
in close for a quick hug - car still firmly clutched – he towers over me
and smiles. He pats my back patiently with his free hand, as though he
wishes to burp out of me this strange compulsion to hug him.
I squeeze this lovely young man – my youngest son – with a fierce love
and a desire to pass to him the courage to face life every day as a
person who has ‘different’ imprinted all over him. Paulie doesn’t fit
our world’s pattern of normal – he is someone who sticks out. He has no
power to change this.
Paulie has a lovely face – beaming with joy one minute, as blank as a
pat of butter the next. His is an open face – no traces of guile. His
blue-grey eyes are shielded by thick glasses, which correct a bad squint
– the result of severe long-sightedness. The spectacles magnify his
lashes – stubby and blonde - the colour of the hair that is thickening
on his top lip and chin. The hair on his head is short – a number 2 all
over – otherwise it sticks straight up from the scalp, giving him the
look of a hearth brush. His high forehead conceals a busy mind, a brain
that just doesn’t make the right connections.
He has worn glasses since he was ten months old, and looks naked and
terribly vulnerable without them. Indeed, his confidence plummets if he
ever breaks or loses them, and he remains in bed until a new pair can be
bought. This is despite the fact that when he is wearing them, he looks
over his glasses as often as he looks through them. Perhaps this is
because there are usually traces of all the major food groups smeared
over the lenses.
Paulie loves to move. The coordination centres in his brain are a
little jumbled, so he is clumsy. After dropping a cup, or tripping over
his feet, Paulie will hit the offending body part, trying to ‘teach it a
lesson’. It hurts to watch him punish himself, but this is a behaviour
we haven’t been able to modify.
Paulie runs with his whole body, a kind of lurching, pumping run,
involving movement at almost all joints. He is fast – not quite as
speedy as Forrest Gump, after whom he styles himself, but fast enough.
He is a Special Olympics runner, finding safety in a large group of
other disabled athletes. Here, he isn’t the only person to pull the
waistband of his tracksuit pants up to his armpits, and tuck the legs of
his pants into his socks. Here he is accepted without a second glance.
Paulie loves people, all people, even though they are frequently cruel
to him. He is teased and taunted by those who don’t know him.
“Handicap, handicap, fuckin' mental handicap” from kids who attend a
neighbouring school. The kids at his own school have loved and
protected him. I fear for him in the new environment he’s about to
enter, and hope the high school kids he meets will get to know him
quickly. He gets stared at by adults in the supermarket, and the
street; some of them seemingly afraid they’ll catch something if they
come too close to him. They’d be lucky if they did ‘catch’ his capacity
to love, to empathise, and to embrace difference. I have learned to
reply to their whispered “What is he?” with a smile, and “He’s my son
Paul, a lovely young man”.
The stares and taunts hurt Paulie, although he tries not to show it in
front of his aggressors. These are the nights he cuddles up close,
asking the questions that tear at my heart.
“What happened to me, Muvver – why is my silly brain a bit slowed down?
Why can’t you fix me, mum, you’re a doctor.”
I can’t fix Paulie – nobody can. Should we try, anyway? He is a
loving, thoughtful, loyal young man. He is physically strong, and has a
beautiful shape. He makes more of his I.Q. of 55 than some ‘normal’
people make of their considerably higher ability.
I can’t fix Paulie, but would love to fix the world he must live in.
Why can’t we accept, if not embrace, difference; tolerate, if not love
our neighbours. What would it take to make this world a friendlier
place? Paulie has enriched my life, and that of many, many others. He,
along with other intellectually disabled people, has so much to teach
about courage and tenacity, about tolerance and love.
Tomorrow he enters the big world – High School. Although he will spend
much of the day in the sheltered “special needs’ unit, he will be
exposed to thousands of new faces, new people, all reflecting the
bigotry of the world that has produced them. I hope it is a positive
experience for him. I know that if any of his fellow students take the
time to get to know Paulie, they will be greater for it. Perhaps that
is Paulie’s task in life – to better the world for all of us.
He’s doing a fine job so far.
(C) 1999 Lauren Roche
PG-17 Language The rain brushed silver-grey scratches across the face of the world. It drummed impatient castanet rolls on my umbrella as I walked on the bridge. Autumn trees seemed to flame, red, gold, even browning
leaves somehow glowing against the damp dark trunks. Silvery curtains of rain danced, grey banks of fog billowed and melted away, and when the buildings along the river appeared momentarily, they seemed unusually far away, wavering and shifting as the rain darkened the distance. I enjoyed the illusion of movement that seemed to make the end of the bridge shift around in the pouring rain outside the comfort of my umbrella. I never even noticed when I walked from the ordinary world into another one. I guess that’s why I’m here - ordinary old me, with the extraordinary name - Maree Letica, housewife and mother of three.
The rain no longer bucketed down, the air had become dry, so I collapsed my umbrella, and dragged it beside me to the other side of the bridge. The swirling fog had cleared, revealing a pink-tinged morning sky with the promise of later rain. A few metres ahead of me and below the knob where I stood, was a large pool, fringed with rushes, from which the sound of splashing rose to greet me. I saw, through the now clear air, a large pink bird, bathing in the river pool. I’d never seen such a splendid creature, which watched my approach without alarm. I looked around me, entranced. This was a world of calm, of near silence, of free and open spaces, where discord and fog and driving rain seemed an ancient memory. A warm mist floated over the surface of the unclouded, lily-studded water, which reflected the honeyed rays of the early-rising sun. I arrived at the edge of the pool, and stooped, cupping a handful of the water, which was slightly cooler than my blood. I drank deeply - ambrosial. I thought - I will rest here a while, my soul needs a break from my every day life, the tedium, the endless clamour of my children heard dimly at the outskirts of my mind, and the violence of a drunken, despondent spouse. (What happened to my perfect marriage?) I will rest here as long as it takes my mind and my body to heal.
As the sun ascended and brightened the sky, I became less tired, more serene, my thinking became clearer, as though the fog which had enclosed my poor mind was thinning. I removed my hospital pyjamas, then lay beside them on the warm, steamy grass by the umbrella (where did that come from?). The sun kissed the wounds on my wrists – two trial slashes on each side, then the good ones, the ones that showed I really meant it, that I really could no longer cope with my life. The stitches sat harsh and black against my pale, bruised skin. I saw the puncture from the IV, which they inserted to infuse life back into my dying body. The sun’s light was healing - I felt my life being restored more by its warmth and love than by anything the doctors and therapists had done. As I relaxed I remembered - I have been to this world before – it exists at the bottom of my pain, it is accessible to me in times of extreme crisis, it has always been here, and always will be. Reassured, I lay my head on the warm, scented grass, and slept.
I wake to a hand on my shoulder. It’s the doctor, the one who escorted me from the ambulance a few nights ago. There’s a stain on his collar – the man needs a wife – this thought makes me want to laugh. What if he got one like me? I look over his shoulder – I am back on the ward, in a secure room, under constant watch. I struggle, and strike at him, all humour gone. Why am I in this harsh, white place? Where are my pool, my bird, and my peace? Why have they brought me here? My wrists throb, my heart aches, the fog rolls back in.
I am in a hospital, they tell me, because I am suicidally depressed; the driving rain and banks of fog of my every day suburban life enslaved me, and led me to make desperate attempts to escape. I tried to kill myself a couple of times, but no one understood my pain. “Look at you, girl; beautiful home, loving husband, three healthy children, what have you got to be depressed about?” All I knew was the lack of joy and energy, the self-hatred, the torrents of tears; the mental muddling that is called depression – a woefully inadequate word for such a formidable opponent. “You’ll get better” the GP said, neglecting to tell me about the side effects of the ‘happy pills’, the misery of needing them. Eventually creeping up, were hints of madness to liven up the extreme grief of my existence. All I knew was I had to escape.
The young doctor tells me the hospital’s job is to make me well, to make me want to return to my beautifully appointed suburban cell, with the bewildered children and model husband. They want to make me live in this life, to learn to ignore the other world, a wrist-slash away, where my misery will cease to exist. I continue to struggle against my bachelor doctor/jailer – what would he know of my existence?
He calls for a nurse. There is the sharp odour of alcohol, a sting in my buttock, the flash of a hypodermic being removed. I fall back against the pillows, defeated. Fuck him and his sedatives.
My tears drop silvery onto the plastic-covered hospital pillow, drumming impatiently like castanets as they fall. A thick, grey fog billows up to the ceiling, and pushes it away. The walls slowly begin to fade as I leave this world, using the last power of my mind. I approach the misty bridge, gravel crunches underfoot. Initially all grey, my surroundings soon sport some flashes of colour from the dying autumn leaves. The silvery bark of the trees twinkles as if in welcome. The hospital buildings look unusually distant over the other side of the river. No rain today, just the swirling of the mist which obscures all painful images and memories as I approach my peaceful place. I see the healing pool ahead of me - my bird is there – it splashes rainbow drops from its roseate wings and awaits my approach. I am home, in a world with no wards and no sedatives, no demands and no sadness. This is a world of my making, where happiness and peace will reign – this will be my world.
(C) 1999 Lauren Roche
(Inspired by ‘BRAIN DAMAGE’ by PINK FLOYD) The dementia crept up slowly, its carpet-slippered feet occasionally scuffing at the outskirts of her mind. Her family were probably the first to notice the forgetfulness and confusion. These lapses were initially infrequent - put down to normal aging - but hell; she was only in her sixties. The creeping confusion picked up speed with time, and a few months later, her illness was more obvious, more public. Much to the family’s embarrassment there were now new behaviours, odd ones. The onset was subtle, a fixation with childish things, with games, toys and imaginary friends she’d once had. Her husband would return home to find her curled on the couch, one of her new collection of baby dolls clutched in her liver-spotted hand, other thumb in her mouth.
She returned to childhood games, things she hadn’t done for years. She’d made daisy chains with the children, of course, but that was long ago. Now she took to sitting on the front lawn, eschewing the outdoor furniture, and stringing together dozens of the tiny daisies that punctuated the grass, their yellow-eyed whiteness broken by the occasional shining buttercup. Few of these golden gems made their way into the garlands around her neck – they were far more difficult to thread together with these fingers, bent from years of women’s work. She took to greeting the neighbours and the paperboy festooned with weeds. She was losing the plot. It was sad, everyone said; she was always such a ‘proper’ lady; how embarrassing for her, and for her family.
Oh yes, remembering games, and daisy chains and laughs while forgetting important, current things marked the beginning of her descent. Everyone hoped it was temporary. The doctors checked her out – nothing physical, they said. She was far too young for senile dementia, so it couldn’t be that. Was there any stress at home? Not until this started, thought her family, grimly. Still, perhaps it would pass. It didn’t. Her family agonised – if only her physical health weren’t so good – this could last for years, it could get really embarrassing for all of us.
Things soon became a little better, if only because it was more contained. She was afraid to leave the house, even to walk in her garden. Fear of who knows what kept her closed in her home, the only contact with the world outside her family being the papers, dropping each day onto the thin carpet inside the front door. The news was of crime, disease and appalling poverty alongside pictures of faithless royals and politicians whose newsprint faces kissed the threadbare mat in her hallway. Initially she skimmed the papers, but their gloomy news was an unwelcome intrusion into the musty daytime solitude of her closed up house. The world was going mad! Soon she let these ‘lunatics’ lie where they landed, the paper holding their folded faces to the floor, until they were removed by her husband on his return at night. Every day, the paperboy brought more.
At least she was comfortable in her home, which she and Richard had purchased as newly-weds. This was a place she knew and recognised, the old-rose scented pot-pourri in the living areas complementing the dusky pink furnishings and drapes. This was a place she loved, where she and Richard, who was nearing retirement, planned to grow old together. This place had sheltered their growing family – scattered now, only Pat, the married daughter who lived a few streets away remained to visit regularly.
Down the narrow passageway was her bedroom, a sunny room where once her infants had slept, and where she now slept alone. Richard was disturbed by her nightly restlessness, and needed his own space, so was sleeping in their master bedroom. She’d redecorated the little room a couple of years ago, replacing the old-fashioned wallpaper with a matt paper in palest green. It was a restful room. She loved to lie there under the white candlewick spread and watch the early light - filtered through the new summer leaves of the mulberry - play on the white ceiling. Sometimes, though, she missed the cabbage roses of the old wallpaper – why did things have to change? She missed the old ways, the old days. Things were changing too fast now, she realised she couldn’t keep up. Sometimes she just felt so fuzzy in the head about things. This morning she’d felt quite confused – she almost didn’t recognise Richard, her husband of so many years. How upsetting for him! She was finding things in unexpected places – someone was obviously fooling around in her kitchen; the bathroom too, come to think of it. Things just weren’t right.
Oh, the cruelty of the world. Soon this once safe haven was filled with small deceits – nothing was as she’d known it – in fact everything had changed, where was the world she knew? Strangers peopled her life; a man who insisted he was her husband ate breakfast at her table this morning, and wept when she demanded he leave. A girl with a baby kept her prisoner during the day. ‘The nerve of her – called herself my daughter – have never seen her in my life before’, thought the woman. She shouted her confusion and rage, but no one seemed to hear. Her head was full of dark forebodings, her behaviour becoming violent.
The family consulted one another. She obviously couldn’t be trusted on her own – what if she left the stove on, and burned dad’s house down? For her own sake, as well as that of the family, she’d be better off in a Home. They loved her - of course they did – but this would be better for everyone.
She’s in the home now, and seems to like it. Her family doesn’t see her much - there seems little point – she doesn’t know them any more. She has retreated to the dark side of the moon, beyond their reach. To all intents and purposes, though, they are dead to her, but she will never be dead to them. Her children live in dread that the genetic imperfection that caused her early dementia has passed from her to some of them. On her good days – increasingly rare – when a flicker of memory reminds her she had a family, she smiles.
One day, they’ll join her. (C) 1999 Lauren Roche The following is an excerpt from Lauren's autobiography. PG-17 Language It's 1978, I have just turned 16. I have been aboard the Polar Star
once before, on her trip through Wellington to get supplies prior to
heading to the Antarctic for four months.
In mid January the ‘Evening Post’ carried a small notice about the Polar
Star. She had experienced engine difficulties in the Antarctic, and her
tour had been shortened. She would be back in Wellington in a few days,
after which she would return to Seattle, her homeport.
Wow! I was really excited. Although I had no friends among the crew of
the Polar Star, her visit promised an interesting diversion.
The day she arrived I sat on a desk in the Commercial Union office
watching the harbour and Overseas Passenger terminal. I was beside
myself with excitement watching her berth. She was so big, and so
beautiful.
She was in port for a week. The next day after work, and every day
after that I boarded the ship and made some new friends. Americans were
so cool - I just had to go to the States one day.
On the fifth day of her stay I jokingly told one of the sailors that I
was going to stow away on his ship. He laughed. As I left the ship
that night, the Captain was standing on the quarterdeck. ‘I’m stowing
away to the States - on your ship’. He smiled, and said ‘Are you now?
All right then’. Poor man, I’m sure those words haunted him in the
months to come.
That night at Grandma’s (where I was now sleeping in mum’s old room) I
had a long think about things. There was nothing keeping me in New
Zealand - why shouldn’t I stow away? I was brave enough, and after all
it was only a twenty-day voyage. I’d get to see America, and I wouldn’t
have to save a cent for airfares! I’d just bought a few new books (The
Narnia Chronicles as a boxed set, and the complete set of mum’s
favourite author, Jacqueline Sussan – a very eclectic selection). I’d
have new stuff to read on the ship, so I wouldn’t get bored. The more I
thought about stowing away, the more sense it made. The next morning my
mind was made up; I’d do it.
The first thing I did to set the plan in action was see my manager at
work. ‘Things are really bad at Grandma’s place, I have to leave
Wellington tomorrow, and move to Auckland. Can I please have my final
pay?’ He seemed surprised by the lack of notice, and tried to persuade
me to stay, but I couldn’t. I said I’d remain until the next day, so
was paid up until then. With my final pay I bought two identical red,
white, and blue tote bags, a torch, and some batteries. I felt really
prepared for my journey.
After work I went to the Polar Star, and over a card game on the mess
deck, I announced my plan. Only one guy seemed to take me seriously,
and motioned me to shut up and see him later. His name was Robert
Fitzmaurice; he was from Salem, Oregon, and at twenty was already a big
bear of a man. I warmed to him immediately.
When we were alone he asked if I was serious. When he realised I really
intended to do it, he promised to help. It was Thursday evening; the
ship was leaving port on Saturday morning. I was to meet him on the
mess deck after work on Friday, and we’d take it from there. Wow, I was
on my way!
I packed my tote bags on Thursday night, and had another look at the
calendar behind my bedroom door. Counting off the days from January
20th through to February 9th reassured me. Twenty days was not too long
to stay in hiding. Besides, I’d probably get caught by the end of that
time and returned to New Zealand. It was going to be so easy!
Friday morning I said goodbye to Grandma, rather off-handedly. She
didn’t ask why I was taking the bus that day rather than walking. Nor
did she query the two tote bags I was carrying. Tracey was still asleep
when I left. Never mind, she’d have tons of time to catch up with what
I’d done.
As I left Grandma’s house I said a silent goodbye to it. I doubted I’d
ever see it again, and despite the shelter it had provided me for long
periods of my life, I wasn’t at all sad to see the back of it. I tried
to imprint it on my memory, however; the green house on the corner with
the browny-red roof, the flowering Pohutakawa tree in the front and the
big yellow Salvation Army home on the hill behind it.
I worked at Commercial Union that day in a bit of a daze. Nothing
seemed very important. My co-workers appeared sad I was leaving, and I
had a couple of offers of temporary accommodation. I smiled sweetly
and said I was very well set up, thank you, and I’d send them a letter
from Auckland. I couldn’t tell them what I planned to do; they would
have narked on me before the ship even left the harbour.
At five PM I left to walk to the Overseas Terminal. On my way there I dropped off one of my bags at an office on the wharf.
I met Rob as arranged. He seemed surprised to see me, but at no stage tried to back out of his promise to help. He hid my bag and I returned to the wharf for my second one. I had deliberately chosen identical bags in case someone had noticed me carrying two different ones aboard and become suspicious. We had a couple of Cokes in the mess, and Rob showed me to my new home; a high ledge hidden near the ceiling of the engine room. It was hot, bright and very noisy, but I knew I could handle it. This was my big adventure, and I wasn’t going to let mere discomfort put me off enjoying it. Another bonus was that I wouldn’t run my torch batteries down; it was bright enough to read twenty-four
hours a day in here if I wanted to.
I slept quite well until four AM when Rob and another crewmember waked
me. A rumour had gone around the ship that there was a girl in the
engine room, so they’d decided to shift me to a safer location before
the ship was inevitably searched.
We crept through the sleeping ship to the forward deck upon which the
Bridge stood. As I ducked to enter a low entranceway into the space
under the Bridge I turned to look at Wellington. She’s a beautiful
city, and looked her best that clear still morning. Over my right
shoulder I could see the Point Jerningham lighthouse flashing its
warning. Was it telling me not to leave New Zealand? That light was
the last glimpse of my homeland I would see for nearly five months. I
still feel attached to it!
Once we’d entered the space under the Bridge we had to crawl about ten
metres to our left where a small compartment waited through another
small hatch. This fan space was to be my home for almost three weeks.
The space was narrow (less than one and a half metres), and the ceiling
was too low to allow me to kneel or stand. It was a very long space
though, running almost the width of the ship. My two helpers had placed a mattress, pillow and blanket there for me.
The mattress had to be wedged across the narrow compartment; otherwise
it would have rolled with the ship. (Icebreakers have rounded hulls to
allow them to ride up onto thick ice before crushing a way through it,
so they tend to roll quite a lot at sea. As I was near the top of the
ship, this rolling motion would be exaggerated). As the mattress was
folded into this gap I was unable to stretch my legs out while lying
down. When I sat on the mattress, my head grazed the ceiling of the
space; there was no way to get completely comfortable.
Where my first hiding place had been bright and noisy, this space was
pitch black. No light entered, and sounds were very muffled. I hadn’t
brought a watch with me - there was no way to tell whether it was night
or day. I was very alone. I unpacked my bags to check on supplies.
Two pair of jeans, four T-shirts, three pair of socks (including stripy
BCR ones), three pair of knickers, one spare bra, deodorant, a pair of
large hoop earrings, ten books, a torch, six spare batteries, a box of
tampons, my contraceptive pills, shampoo, toothbrush and toothpaste, two
boxes of tissues (alternate sheets of apricot and white), a Bible, a
diary and a pen; quite a haul. In my pocket I had forty New Zealand
dollars. I was ready for anything.
I slept for a while after the sailors had left. They’d left me a can of
Coke and a large preserving can to use as a toilet. I woke the next
morning to the feel of the ship pulling away from the wharf. The
adventure had begun! I opened the Coke to celebrate (having located it
with the torch), and tried to suppress my excitement. As the drink was
the only food item I had, I saved about a third of it. I wrote in my
diary that ‘this was to spare me the psychological problem of being
left with nothing to drink’. I settled the can behind my bags and
started to read.
Despite my mattress being wedged across the width of the fan space, when
the ship got out of the harbour I began to slide - back and forth across
the long space. Nothing I could do would stop it. I sat myself on the
cold, hard floor, and waited for some assistance. Rob turned up a few
hours later, and went away to get a rope. He used this to secure the
mattress to a post close to the starboard side of the ship. He told me
the ship had been searched prior to leaving port, and the engine room
had received special attention. The officers were now certain no
stowaway could be on board. He also told me that my current hiding
place was located between the Bridge and the Captain’s cabin, so
wherever the Captain was, he wasn’t far from me. This wasn’t reassuring. Rob had also brought another big tin, this one full of drinking water. He gave me food, too – sandwiches of some description. He was going to look after me well.
After he had left, I got back to reading. I’d finished ‘The Lion, The
Witch and the Wardrobe’, and thought I should start on the Jacqui Sussan
books. ‘Valley of the Dolls’ was the first of her books I picked up.
Its story of drugs and sex, reminded me of mum.
Over the next few days I adjusted to the motion of the ship. My
mattress now stayed put, but it wasn’t very comfortable lying on the
rope. I took my pill conscientiously, and used my toilet tin to pee
in. I was far too embarrassed to poo in the tin, which Rob emptied
overboard every three or four days.
Rob visited me daily, usually late at night or very early in the
morning, as he didn’t want anyone to see him entering the space under
the Bridge. He always brought some food, but I wasn’t eating much so
most of it made its way to the rubbish bag.
After a week of not washing, my hair was feeling really greasy and
revolting. I was dying for a shower, but we couldn’t risk me leaving my
space. Once when half asleep I poured some shampoo into my drinking
water and tried to wash myself, using tissues to dry up. I then had no
drinking water until the next day when Rob visited.
I got my period about a week into the trip. My used tampons joined the
uneaten food in my rubbish bag, as I wasn’t exposing Rob to them
either. When we crossed the equator Rob told me of the maritime
tradition that accompanied this milestone: any sailor who was crossing
the equator for the first time had to crawl through all of the ship’s
rubbish to the feet of a crewmate who was christened ‘King Neptune’ for
the day. The initiate then had to kiss Neptune’s bellybutton. As far
as I knew, I was the only person on the ship on their virgin equatorial
crossing, but they held the ceremony any way. I cringed at the thought
of someone slithering through the ships garbage to Neptune’s belly
button with one of my tampons caught in his hair.
Having no way to tell what time of day it was proved quite
disorienting. Sometimes it seemed Rob visited twice in one day. Other
times the gap between visits seemed huge. I was reading my books at
quite a rate, and had finished them by the time my journey was half
over. I wrote in my diary that ‘Once is not Enough’ was ‘an A1 book’.
My little space was starting to smell a bit ripe. I was the most likely
source of the smell, followed closely by the rubbish bag and pee can.
My urine smelled really awful; this wasn’t surprising, as I was eating
very little, and because of this my body was probably producing a lot of
ketones.
Near the end of the trip there was a time where Rob seemed to be away
for two or three days. My water had run out, I was dry and very
thirsty, and had even been tempted to drink my urine for some
refreshment. I crawled a little way out of my fan compartment so when
Rob arrived I’d see him sooner, and lay on the cold floor. It felt
great to be able to stretch my legs out. I spent a couple of hours
stretching my body, and enjoying the air, which smelled much fresher
than that in my space. At last someone opened the hatch under the
bridge and turned on a light. It wasn’t Rob – I’d been found. The
sailor crawled away from me initially, then turned back and rubbed his
eyes. ‘My God, it’s true, it’s a girl’. I remembered seeing him in
Wellington prior to our departure, and he recognised me too. He told me
there was a bra pinned on one of the ship's noticeboards, with a sign ‘The
Phantom Stowaway?’ next to it. He asked if I was missing a bra. I
wasn’t. I told him how thirsty I was and he promised to bring me a
drink. He left, leaving the light on, to return a long time later with
a paper cup of water. He’d been so worried about being spotted entering
the fan space with the drink, that he’d had to walk around the deck
several times before the coast was clear and he could bring it to me.
Before he left, he kissed me. I smelled and looked terrible and my
breath was probably disgusting, too. This was the beginning of my
education that a man would screw anything, in any state, if he’d been
away from women for a while. I wrote in my diary that he was a
‘ferocious kisser’.
Rob appeared shortly afterwards. It had been two days since his last
visit. Rob was very keen to bonk me (either he could tell one of his
crewmates had kissed me, or he was too far from land also). I had
already decided I liked Rob enough to have sex with him, but had wanted
to get my head around my situation first. This seemed like as good a
time as any, although it did give further proof that men aren’t too
fussy about who and what they’d sleep with.
As he was leaving, Rob warned me that another sailor was going to visit
my space the next day - it was Mike, the man who’d brought me to this
fan compartment early on my first morning. He had to perform some
routine maintenance, and I was not to be worried about seeing him.
That night the sea was very rough. As I was perched on my mattress
peeing into the toilet tin, the ship rolled alarmingly. As the ceiling
was so low it was quite a performance having a pee - it was impossible
to sit straight, so I crouched and slouched over the can. It had to sit
on the mattress; otherwise we tended to slide across the floor. This
night, the ship lurched, I lost my balance, my full toilet tin tipped
over, and urine soaked the mattress. I managed to turn the mattress
over, but the ship gave a repeat performance, and anything remaining in
the tin splashed on the other side. My last few days aboard were spent
lying on a cold, stinking, urine soaked mattress. I was very glad I
still hadn’t had a crap in my tin – if I had, that would have made an
even worse mess.
Mike appeared a few hours later, bringing me a can of drink and some
advice. We were now less than a week away from Seattle and he said he
was very worried about me. Did I know what I was letting myself in
for? Did I have someplace to stay? What would I do when I
disembarked? Did I know what a pimp was? I knew the answer to the last
question - everyone who’s been to Sunday School knows that a pimp is
someone who tells tales on somebody else. I nodded my head vigorously
and fortunately didn't open my mouth. He would have been really worried
if he’d had any idea how naïve I was. He didn't mention the smell in
the fan compartment, which must now have been extremely unpleasant.
Three days before we arrived in Seattle, Rob asked me if I’d like to
stay with him in Oregon. I was delighted – I’d thought about
hitchhiking to see my uncle in California (the one who didn’t know the
Osmonds), but didn’t yet know where California was. We decided we’d
head straight down to Salem to see Rob’s folks, then take things from
there. As he spent a lot of time either at the Coast Guard base or at
sea, Rob didn’t have his own apartment yet. He was sure his family
would love me.
We docked in Seattle. As the ship had been away from home for several
months, there was quite a welcome waiting. From my space under the
Bridge I could hear loud music and cheering. The pier was crowded with
family and friends welcoming their boys (and a very bedraggled girl)
home.
We had to wait until things had quietened down a little before I could
be set free. I had to leave the ship while there were still civilians
aboard, but couldn’t risk being seen coming out of my space while there
were too many people around. It was a tricky balancing act.
Soon it was time. Rob and one of his friends assisted me from the fan
compartment. When it came time to stand up, I found I couldn’t easily.
My calves were weak and cramping, and it hurt to bear weight on them. I
looked around me. It was early evening, and the light seemed muted
compared to that in Wellington. I sat on the deck while Rob concealed
my tote bags in his luggage. His friend supported me as we walked from
the ship. I heard him tell someone I was his girlfriend, and on drugs.
I must have looked awful. Three long weeks of grease on my hair and
skin; dirty clothes that were now too big on me; my lips cracked and
bloodied where I’d chewed the dried skin from them; my legs barely able
to hold me upright. Rob still found me attractive though. He’d
obviously been at sea far too long!
Rob called a taxi from a booth on the pier. The roads were huge and
packed with really big cars all driving on the wrong side; there wasn't
a Morris or Mini in sight. We drove to a hotel on the waterfront, and
Rob checked us in after telling me to keep out of sight. We rode up in
the elevator with a very well dressed woman who was on her way to the
Cabaret being held on our floor. She couldn’t keep her eyes off me, and
sort of melted against the back of the lift in order to get as far from
me as possible. At least she didn’t hold her nose.
The two things uppermost in my mind were a shit and a shower. I took my
time over both of them, and felt a different woman afterwards.
I’d shrunk a lot. My hipbones jutted out and I could remove my jeans
without undoing them. I could see a big difference in my shape when I
looked in the mirror. Tracey would be really jealous.
Rob ordered us a meal and bottle of wine, and I called Wellington,
collect. Tracey answered the phone. Grandma was worried about me -
she was keeping Tracey awake at night by listening to religious radio
till all hours. Trace hadn’t been sure where I’d done a runner to, and
had wondered if I was back in Auckland. Hell no, that was far too
tame, besides, I’d been there, done that.
Despite the food and wine I couldn’t sleep. I looked at the Seattle
shoreline all lit up through the window. I watched some TV - even the
ads were amazing! The hotel we were in hired fishing rods to guests who
wanted to fish from their window, but it was too late for that. Maybe
I’d just go for a hobble downtown.... I stayed put, eventually curling up
behind Rob. The mattress was long and soft and dry. I was clean and
fed and back on land. I’d made it! (C) 1999 Lauren Roche Some of Lauren's Favorite Links Lauren’s Personal Website Lauren's ICQ #23213375 Visit Often to Learn about the New Writers' List Featured Writer Previous Showcased WritersA SHOWCASE OF LAUREN'S WORKS
Paulie
A World With No Sadness
Dark Side of the Moon
Stowaway Adventure
Special Olympics
About Face
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