A Clear Line of Sight

“Such a disappointment,” Davy whispered to himself as he stepped off of the gangplank and onto the drifting dock. He wore an itchy 3-piece navy lounge suit, the first time he’d worn it in months. He wrapped himself tighter in the tan trench coat, as the chill in the air roared through the potent north-westerly wind coming off the English Channel. He turned and looked up and high, pulling the brim of the bowler hat down to take the edge off the sun rising to his left. “All that work. All that time.”

What he saw was magnificent, awe-inspiring, terrifying, and beautiful. The R.M.S. Titanic: the largest ship ever built. From this angle, it resembled a city on water, blotting out the world in front of him. But it was just a ship, one that he’d been a part of for months now. Months of preparation, building, testing, inspections, trials, training, all for a maiden voyage that would be happening tomorrow.

Without Davy.

He whispered a final goodbye to the ship and began his long journey down the gently rocking dock, a single suitcase in hand, to the secured comfort of the stone pavement of the port. He looked over his shoulder at the vastness of the ship, something that didn’t appear to grow smaller even as he walked away from it. He enjoyed wearing a suit again, something that his life aboard a ship didn’t often allow, but the material itched more than he remembered and it went without saying that he would have preferred wearing his second mate seaman uniform if it meant he was able to take the cross-Atlantic maiden voyage the next day.

He turned the corner at the end of the port and took one long look back at his ship when he heard an unfamiliar accent calling from the patio of the pub across the street. “C’mere,” the man waved, an equally unfamiliar face. Davy looked both ways; clearly he was waving to someone else. “No, I’m talking to you, sailor,” he motioned Davy to him with a beckon of his hand.

Davy crossed the quiet street towards the man, curious. The pub itself was empty on the inside, only a single bartender cleaning and preparing the seating for a potential lunch rush. The mysterious man raised his mug and asked, “Join me for a pint?”

“You serious, mate? It’s nine in the morning.”

“It’s five o’ clock somewhere,” the mysterious man joked. Davy raised a curious eyebrow, and the man realized there was no way he would have understood that joke. “Sorry, it’s an expression. Where I come from.”

The mysterious man wore a slim cut black suit with thin lapels, a single pocket with a silver pocket square, a matching thin silver tie with a cerulean tie clip on a white button-up cotton shirt. Certainly stylish, but the style itself seemed irrefutably foreign to Davy. The man stood and offered his hand, “Forgive me. I’m Hank Holt. I’m not from around here.” He waved at Davy to sit in the chair in front of him, and Davy politely complied.

“Davy… David Blaire,” he sat, “and I can’t place that accent.”

“I’m from the States,” Hank said, and he left it at that, “And I know who you are. Davy Blaire, Second Officer, R.M.S. Titanic. Today is the ninth of April in the year of our Lord nineteen twelve, correct?”

“Yes,” Davy felt himself make a face at the absurdity of the question, “and the correct term is ‘former’ Second Officer.”

“So I heard,” Hank crooned, “so I heard. Quite the disappointment. I saw your long face as you drug your stuff down the plank. You definitely look like someone ran over your dog.”

“These expressions,” Davy managed a smirk as the bartender brought him a mug full of beer. “So are you with White Star? How do you know of me?”

“No, I’m just a bit of a… a nautical enthusiast, y’know? Bit of a historical buff. I love ships, and this here is an important one, for sure,” Hank emptied his mug and motioned for another. “Read about the shifting, bringing in someone else. Wilde, if I remember?”

“Henry Wilde, yes, from the Olympic. He’s the Chief Officer on the first of the Olympic-class ships, and since his ship is docked for the time being, they transferred him to the Titanic for the maiden route. The Titanic is a pretty big deal for White Star and when this guy became available, they wanted someone with experience sailing a ship like this to take her out for the first trip.”

Hank shook his head, “So you’re Second Officer, and they bump everyone down a few ranks, and you’re the last officer left out, huh?”

“Exactly. I’ve been sailing my whole life. And I was with the Titanic through construction, through trials. I sailed with her from Belfast to Southampton just this week. I’m more than qualified to make this trip.”

“Without a doubt,” Hank said, staring at the monstrous ship in the distance. “But, you know, God, Fate, the universe… whatever makes the world spin has a sense of humor. And something that often looks like a plan. Maybe there are bigger plans for you elsewhere.”

“Bigger than taking the biggest ship known to man on its first trip across the Atlantic?” Davy somberly lost himself in the amber color of his ale.

“What if something were to happen to her? Maiden voyages don’t always go so hot.”

“Like what? Everyone said she’s unsinkable, and I was with her coming from Belfast. She’ll be the most imposing thing on the sea.”

“Perhaps,” Hank placed his mug down, “Look: I’ve read your file. From what I know about you, you’re a very good man, and I’m very happy I was able to sit down with you and buy you this drink. And I think you have an astounding professional future ahead of you. Any idea where you’re going from here?”

“Nothing yet, but there’s some rumors about needing an officer on the Majestic. Might be need of me there.”

“That sounds good,” Hank smiled and patted him on the shoulder, “Be down now; that’s understandable. Just don’t stay down. Might even be a promotion for you over there.”

“That’d be nice,” Davy smiled. “Thanks for the drink.”

“No problem,” Hank stood and smoothed the creases on his suit jacket, buttoning the single top button, “Now, I’m heading to the ship. Got some business to attend to there.”

Davy stood and shook his hand, “Thank you, Mr. Holt. I think I needed a drink and an ear.”

“Absolutely,” Hank wouldn’t let go of his hand, “But I need one thing from you, sir.”

Davy was nervous, feeling the other shoe had dropped. Hank continued, “In your trouser pocket, I’m guessing right pocket, there are a set of keys.” Davy’s eyes grew nervous. He fished inside his pocket and, to his surprise, he felt a single key with a small, floating ring on the keychain. He pulled it out and looked it over.

“I certainly do. How did you possibly know that?”

“What’s it go to?” Hank finally released his hand.

“It’s the key to the locker up in the crow’s nest.”

“So it belongs to the ship, not you.”

“I suppose it does. I used that locker to keep some of my things. I must have forgotten to turn them in on my way out.”

“Certainly an accident, I’m sure. Tell you what: like I said, I have business to attend to on the ship today. I’m meeting with Murdock, who I guess is the First Officer now, right? I wouldn’t mind taking those to him on your behalf.”

“Certainly,” he handed the keys to Hank, “But I doubt he’ll even miss them. It’s just an insignificant locker. They could just break it open if they needed to.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Like I said: maiden journeys don’t always go as planned. What if they need something in that locker that could be of great importance? We don’t know God’s plan. Better to play it safe.”

“Yes sir. Thank you.”

“And thank you, Second Officer Blaire. I wish you the best of luck on the Majestic.”

“I can only pray,” Davy smiled. He collected his things and walked out and down the street.

Hank smiled. He pushed up the sleeve on his left arm and checked the time on his smart watch. He tucked it back under his sleeve and drained the last few drops out of his mug. He collected his bulky briefcase and began to walk confidently down the dock, up the ramp, and onto the ship. Hank wore no hat, but his suit was nice enough and his demeanor strong enough that nobody asked for credentials. He made strong eye contact and smiled at everyone he passed; it seems a pleasant, confident demeanor opens a lot of doors. He took a direct line to the forward deck in front of the bridge, and he found the ladder to the crow’s nest.

Hank looked from left to right and saw that no one was watching, so he placed his loafered foot on the bottom rung of the ladder and began to climb. When he reached the latch leading into the crow’s nest, he threw open the latch door and was unsurprised to find that nobody was there. He pulled himself up and in and sat down in the crow’s nest seat. He took a deep breath and smiled. He observed the world around him, from high up in the most famous ship in modern history. He observed all of Southampton and the vastness of the port city and of the English Channel in front of him. Five days from now, a man will sit in this box. He will screw up his eyes and try to see out into the vastness of the black, invisible sea, and he will see nothing. Nothing until it is too late. And that man will look to his left, and he’ll see this closed locker, this locked locker. And he’ll wonder.

Hank lifted his left hand and placed the key with the floating ring on it into the locker lock. He twisted. The locker easily opened and the door swung wide. Inside, sitting on a pile of papers, was a pair of binoculars. The only pair on the ship. Hank grabbed them, looked through them, saw the incredible beauty of the water in front of him. He smiled, placing them on the counter in front of the chair and the crow’s nest window. He shut the locker, leaving the key inside the lock. He stood, looked at the binoculars, and he grinned.

“Maybe this will help,” he said. He pressed a few buttons on the top of his large suitcase, and in the blink of an eye, he was gone.