The Ship of Dreams

Heralding his one and only three-piece suit, Geoffrey sat alone in the Titanic dining hall at a table that was tucked away in the corner just by the exit. He had chosen the table because it gave him a birds-eye vantage point of the whole vast chamber while allowing him to note the individuals that came and went through the gigantic giant French double doors beside him. At the same time, he did so because it provided him with a sense of security with his back being turned to the rest of the room with so little space between in and the wall behind him.

Beads of sweat rolled down the surface of his forehead as he fidgeted with the little snow-white napkin that he had been given. Very slowly he went about pulling the napkin at the corners until the R.M.S insignia bearing a red flag could became visible, at which point he would fold it back on itself again. The impression that it put off was that Geoffrey was giving the art of origami a try, despite not knowing the slightest thing about it.

Folding the napkin open and shut once more, Geoffrey glanced over at the embellished plate that he had been served. The plate contained green peas, creamed carrots, boiled rice, and potatoes. It consisted of these staples because they were the only thing that his dwindling budget could purchase. Like his coffee, the food on the plate had been left very well alone. Although that was not entirely true. Geoffrey noted where he had used to knife to form a diagonal line across the plate using the green peas on it. He had done so as a symbol that he was looking for a slant to tell his story.

As this thought came to mind, causing him to ruminate once more, he then turned his attention to his journal which sat neatly right beside the plate. It was a mess. Sprawled out across it was a bullet point list of possible stories for his article on Titanic.

In his mind, none of them worked. He had jotted down things like design, interviews of the rich and famous, lifestyle, and the Titanic experience, with each point having an aggressive cross drawn through it to show disapproval of each idea. There was even a good section of the page where he had vigorously sketched out overlapping spirals as if expressing that his mind was running circles while doing backflips. Looking at it made Geoffrey let out a scoff of said disappointment. Geoffrey gave the napkin another fold.

The spiral in the journal also had a more adverse effect on the reporter. It acted as a portal that with each ring, sent Geoffrey into the worse case of tunnel vision as if he were viewing the room through the lens of this chaotic circle. This constricted outlook lent itself to shallow breathing which caused his senses to sharpen. In his hypersensitive state, he could hear the clattering of the plates and the clicks of silverware against them. The brightly lit room began to bother him, giving him quite the jolting headache. Simply put, Geoffrey was having a panic attack.

Geoffrey had allowed himself to get caught in the glamour, excitement, and idealism that surrounded Titanic. But that ship had finally run course. The idealism dissipated and gave way, and the reality of the situation sank in and replaced it. This was not the time nor the place for fanciful sentiments. He was not on vacation or escaping to a brave new world. The only reason he was on Titanic was that he had a job to do. There was a story to write.

The passengers arriving in the vast dining hall signified and queued Geoffrey onto one fact; Titanic had finished her first leg of the journey. This meant that six hours of the long trek had already lapsed and that Titanic was docked in Cherbourg, France, the largest artificial port in the world. Over the course of the next two hours, fifteen passengers would disembark, while another 298 souls would be brought on board by the White Star Line tenders found in the Traffic and the Nomadic. For Geoffrey, it let him know that he was running out of time to figure out a story.

Knowing all these factors was one of the many reasons that he found himself so terribly conflicted and panic-stricken. That was just the thing. All the data and information that he had was already well known to the public. Titanic was already a commonplace topic and there was hardly a living person that did not know that the Titanic departed from London and that it would stop in France and Ireland respectively before going to New York. Geoffrey supposed that was the challenge in writing a developing story, for the people are fully aware of what is being written about but expecting something new.

Then there was the issue of the story itself. Any other story about a cruise ship or ocean liner would never make it to the front page unless it sank or ran into some tragedy. The Titanic only made headlines because it was the biggest, largest, most luxurious ocean vessel afloat, and a bunch of rich snotty people was going to be on it. At best, the story was a cocktail party held by wealthy people on a big boat out on the open seas. It was no Moby Dick.

His editor would not be impressed with an expose on Mr. John Jacob Astor IV that listed his favorite drink or inquired how much his first ticket could cost him. Just as he knew his readers would care less about the hand-carved furniture or any other fanciful sentiment about the wonders and implications of new aged art.

Documenting the lifestyle of the fabulously wealthy was a viable option he had to admit. It worked only because people liked to live vicariously through others, especially in the case of elaborate experiences that they would never be able to experience or relate to themselves. Geoffrey even had to give such a piece the due credit that it deserved in that it would gain a larger audience simply because people found entertainment in keeping up with celebrities and high-profile individuals which was all that Titanic was made up of.

Nevertheless, Geoffrey wanted to avoid having to resort to writing such an article as the plague. Here, the problem that he ran into was that he did not feel as if that was a worthy topic for the Titanic. As perhaps one of the greatest feats of human engineering, it deserved better. It deserved to be in the spotlight. Not John Jacob Astor IV. He was one of the wealthiest men in the world. Everyone already knew who the man was.

At the same time, Geoffrey did not want to run the story due to another dilemma that he found himself facing as a reporter. Sure, just about any story on the Titanic would sell, but that created another huge problem for himself. Geoffrey did not want to take any risk of writing a story that had already been covered and repeated God knows how many times in the high volume of reports that were flooding publication houses all around the world.

Right now, he could almost envisage each headline playing out in his head, and he was quite sure he could almost predict what the news would be feeding to the public in the next couple of days. In a few short days’ time, one would proclaim what a success its first crossing had been. Another would focus instead on the welcoming committee that Titanic arrived to as it completed its trip, and how there had never been a crowd of people like it for such an event. A story on Titanic’s social elites would be just another such story with countless others like it.

What was giving Geoffrey such a headache was the fact that he knew he needed conflict for this story to work. That is what sold papers. As with any good story, readers expected to find several individuals coming together at a certain time and place where some horrible thing happens to them all, the more messed up the better. All the writers really had to do was narrate it and provide it with a good sense of conflict resolution. If one did not come to mind, they could simply leave the reader hanging on the edge and have to imagine it for themselves. Geoffrey was conflicted because he needed conflict.

Truth be told, this insight was the one facet of his occupation that indulged a kind of guilty pleasure and that played most on his conscience. Understanding that this was how the trade worked, there were desperate times, such as the one he found himself in that moment, where a small part of himself hoped and almost even longed for something awful to happen. Anything at all did not matter. For once in his life, he just hoped that he would be at that place where the accident happens so that he could be the primary source of the event.

Thinking about it made him sick. He could not count the number of sleepless nights he had spent grappling with what his profession asked of him. It was enough to make him consider pursuing a different career path on occasions such as these.

Journalism was nothing like Geoffrey had thought, or rather, romanticized it to be. The number of times that he had found himself feeling morally or ethically compromised should have been enough to make him seek some other occupation.

In fact, he could not even give a reason for why he did not do just that, other than the sense of job security that it provided him. That, he had spent so long doing it, that he did not much know what else to do with himself. He did not know any other trade as well.

Geoffrey had originally started out in journalism because he understood the way that media and its distribution was the means that influenced the thoughts of people on a global level. It was his naïve belief that he could somehow impact and even redefine the industry by writing articles that highlighted what was right and just in the world, instilling a sense of hope and inspiration in his readers.

Right from the start, Geoffrey realized what a foolish ambition this had been. This just was not the way that the field worked. What he would soon come to learn, was that he had unknowingly entered a time of warfare. Not in the traditional sense with soldiers, trenches, heavy artillery, and combat.

Rather, it was a psychological battle. One where there was no clear opponent, and that was so covert that it convinced people that the operation was a necessity which they gladly paid for and supported. In this unseen battlefield, words, pages, and all other forms of media were the primary weapons because of the ability that they had to influence, mold, and shape the minds of others. It was a fight over consciousness because those in any real position of power realized that it could be used to get the masses to think in a way that kept the systems that benefited them in place.

The thing that Geoffrey was most vexed by was the way that the message most utilized to keep this system in place was one of such great negativities that constantly reiterated what a horrible, nasty, and scary reality we find ourselves in. It was one that highlighted repeatedly the gloom and doom that could be found at every corner and reach of the universe as the reason that those in power were needed as a necessary evil. And it was a message that made Geoffrey’s soul and all his being weep, especially knowing that he played a part in it.

All things considered, the only thing that Geoffrey knew for certain, was that in his quest for conflict, he would under no circumstance write about some oversea fling, affair, love triangle, or any other romantic story. Geoffrey believed it was an overused trope that writers used only when they were in dire straits without enough knowledge or information about the topic itself. Not only that, but he felt that it was a style that ultimately showed a lack of focus. One where the point of emphasis is placed on the heat and passion of two individuals instead of the subject in question.

As it would turn out Titanic was full of stories just like these. A great deal of scandal followed one American businessman and millionaire Benjamin Guggenheim when he boarded the Titanic with his mistress Léontine Aubart. Guggenheim was one of the most notable individuals on Titanic, and he may best be remembered in some of his last remarks, in the echoed statement, “We’ve dressed in our best and are prepared to go down like gentlemen.”

Of countless other stories like this found on titanic with it is 2000 plus passengers perhaps none rivaled the love of Isidor and Ida Strauss. What they shared would make even the hardest critic believe in soul mates and true love all over again. They personified the expression, as in life, so in death, as Isidor so famously refused a lifeboat without her husbandly, as she boldly proclaimed, “We have been living together for many years, why should we separate now? Where you go, I go.”

Even if Geoffrey had come to know any of this it would not have mattered. So strong was his determination and resolve on the matter, that he would much rather show up to New York with no story at all, than another story on love. For him, it impeded on fact and realism and was just another way that he could possibly run the risk of telling a story that had already been covered.

Geoffrey also had to come to terms with the fact that he was also placing a heavier burden upon himself than need be. One that was the result of his own faith and personal agenda. More than anything, it was Geoffrey’s hope that through his work, he would be able to find out what his purpose and meaning were in this life. However, he was starting to think that journalism and Titanic along with it, was not the place for one divine intervention, to answer existential inquiries, or to learn one’s life lessons.

All things considered; it was enough to make him want to kick himself. He was disappointed in himself because he knew that what had happened with Titanic’s near accident in Southampton had been just the thing he was looking for. He had been at the epicenter of such an incident, and he had been caught so off guard to do anything about it.

For once in his life, he had been given the chance of a lifetime; to cover the story of the century. This was it; he had been given the ticket to the big show. Not only that, but it seemed that God was in good enough of a mood to say, here you are I am giving you the opportunity that you have been looking for on a silver platter with a nice little bow around it.

And for what? He had gotten so caught up in it all that he let it slip right through his hand. Now it was not even worth the time in correspondence for there was no doubt in his mind that it had already been covered.

That was the real reason he felt the way that he did, sitting there thinking about tropes and the reasons why he disliked them. He was sick and unable to eat because deep down he knew that the story worth writing had passed him by. So, with time running against him he was going to have to do some serious detective work for a story that would not be nearly half as compelling. One that would not offer the possibility of career advancement as the other one might have.

Perhaps when this was all said and done, he would write an article for a scholarly journal on the topic of conflict and the ways that people respond to challenging or traumatic events. Maybe there would some way he could tie it into his Titanic article and his little existential dilemma so that he could say that that had been his original idea all along. That he had been researching it all at length to pull off this grand feat. It could work. If he learned anything from higher education was the fact that almost everything was entirely made up.

Geoffrey let out a sigh while placing the napkin back on the table. Even though it was still early in the evening he thought it best that he should retire for the evening. It had been a long day and he had had enough of beating himself up. By the look of things, there would be plenty of that when he returned home.

Head reeling, Geoffrey collected his things from off the table and placed them within the contents of his pockets. With shaking hands, he then pulled out his money clip from his jacket's breast pocket throwing the bill and his tip on the table where his journal had been. Despite his current condition, he saw to it that he carefully and gracefully excused himself from his table. He waited until his path was clear, and then he made his way towards the large French doors.

Geoffrey forced the wide glass-panned piece of wood and found himself colliding with another passenger as soon as he had done so. Rather, it was Titanic’s Third Officer Herbert Pitman who was the lesser-known of Titanic’s sailors, but Geoffrey found himself to be too distracted and in such a state of shock that he hardly noticed the fact. Pittman stared at him in awe while Geoffrey’s gaze was cast at the sight just beyond him.

The thing that had so caught his attention was a matter of sudden recognition. He could not believe that he had not noticed it before on his tour of the ship. It sounded crazy, unbelievable, and just flat-out impossible, but the fact of the matter was that Geoffrey had been here before. When he exited the dining hall he was welcomed by the brilliant grand staircase, and as he took it and its magnificent glass dome, a vague image formed in his mind. The remnants of a dream he had visited often. One where he had sunk to the ocean floor in a room that perfectly matched what he saw before him to the very last detail.

Quite as he was, Third Officer Pittman cleared his throat, indicating that Geoffrey was in his way. Geoffrey shook his head as if he had just pulled himself out of a deep sleep, and together the two did that awkward dance when both parties are not quite sure what direction their counterpart will choose.

Time being of the essence, Pittman stood firmly in place, allowing Geoffrey to go around him in his journey back to his cabin. Once the obstruction in his route had removed itself, Pittman adjusted his finely embroidered coat and continued on his way towards the Captain’s bridge carrying with him important intel from the silent room where the radio operators conducted their business.

It was with the highest level of disciplined pose that he carried out on this course, denoting a sense of strict seriousness to him with each step up the elaborate stairwell. He turned starboard bound in a roundabout way as soon as he reached the boat deck at it is top. Like a seasoned soldier, he marched firmly forward to his destination, throwing the door open as he arrived.

Third Officer Pittman took his cap off, placing it at his side as he stomped himself in place addressing his Captain. As he did so, he could not help but to notice the intimidation that he felt in the presence of the great Edward Smith. Normally he was not tasked with such responsibilities, but Murdock and Lightoller were busy at their posts which had bequeathed unto this matter that was of considerable importance.

Smith and the other sailors sat, sporadically dispersed throughout the room as each one of them enjoyed what time they had left to relax some before Titanic was to set sail once again. The captain was enjoying a cup of tea from behind his long ashen grey beard, and his head immediately snapped in Pittman’s direction as soon as the door shut behind him.

“Well, what have you,” he inquired of Pittman as he placed his cup neatly in his lap, playing with the string of the teabag and spinning it in circles as he did so with an expression consisting of curiosity and alertness.

“Correspondence,” Pittman responded, withdrawing two documents from out of his coat pocket with every effort to show Smith the level of respect that he deserved and had earned. “Warning’s sir,” he continued in his short and stoic way as he handed the letters over to Captain Smith.

Everyone in the room could feel a high level of anticipation felt by all that suspended itself upward and that lingered throughout the room as the captain unfolded each report and read it over. Whatever it was he did not much seem to like it which was indicated with several grunts of dissatisfaction.

“The first” the captain trailed off as he interpreted the hastily scribbled scrawls made by Titanic’s radio operator Jack Phillips, “is an account from the White Star Line superintendent. He writes that there is a large obstruction that can be found in our intended passage. The mast of some wreckage,” he finished with each of his crew hanging off the edges of the chairs, intensively listening to his every word.

“The other is intelligence from a vessel near Cape Cod providing the coordinates of a large field of ice,” Captain Smith declared to his followers, a concerned expression forming on his face. “Noted. Plot the course accordingly,” he commanded of the sailors on his bridge “Thank you, Pittman. That will be all. As you were,” the captain ordered of his Third Officer, handing the letters back over to him.

Returning to his tea, Captain Edward Smith watched as Pittman exited the room to return to his post. Once more, he let out a little grunt of disapproval that was so low that it was inaudible to the rest of his cabin. He was becoming irritated. It was not the first cautionary bit of correspondence he had received warning him of ice fields and he was certain it would not be the last. Six hours into the maiden voyage and it had already seemed as if every ship in the water had conveyed this to him.

Captain Edward Smith let the information that he had just received wash right over him. The experienced maverick was more than aware of the potential hazards and dangers that each maritime month brought with it. Weather conditions and the possibility of growlers and the likes were just another part of the trade. There was not a part of him that believed that there was a Captain on the waters that were not privy to this fact. It left him with the opinion that these ships just wanted to be a part of history. To be able to say that they had played some role, no matter how small, in the Titanic’s maiden journey.

As such, he was not going to weigh down on him and affect his judgment in the slightest. He had more pressing concerns to worry about in captaining a ship that was near twice the size of any other ship he had ever steered. Just thinking about it made him recall the promise that he had made himself that he would not allow for a repeat occurrence of what had happened in the Olympic incident.

Even so, there was nothing that particularly vexed Captain Smith in the slightest. The way he saw it, there was only one thing that truly mattered that was stamped into the background of the mind. He was almost home. This was the last show. In just a few days’ time, he would finally be able to enjoy both his old age as well as the fruits of his labor. One final voyage separated him from retirement and spending whatever time he had left with his family and those he cared about.

It pleased him that Titanic would be the last ship that he would captain. He had to admit, being the captain of the ship that made history was a great end-of-career note. As such, he was confident in the ship which was fitted with all the latest and greatest in modern technology. That was what made up the contents of his thoughts. He would not be troubled by fields of ice that could be expected and weather conditions.

That, however, was not the case for Geoffrey as he slipped into bed just a few decks below. Completely unaware of the development forming above him, he was still as troubled as ever as he laid himself down and pulled the fine white sheets over himself. This of course was perhaps for the best. For a veteran of a sailor, fields of ice were nothing. But to the passengers of a ship, it was enough that would have one unable to sleep for the duration of the trip. Just as a fire in the belly of the ship would have, which understandably was the reason why no one was to talk about such a thing. It was on a need-to-know basis.

For some time, Geoffrey lay motionless in his bed staring almost aimlessly at the ceiling above him. The moon cast a sliver of light into his room through the small porthole. He considered the day, what had occurred, what he had done, and what he could have done differently. Geoffrey mused this all over for some time, his mind still doing somersaults to find conflict and a story in everything. This went on for an hour until finally, his eyelids rolled backward, and he welcomed the darkness of sleep.