Mallorca is one of the prime destinations of sun-worshipers from northern Europe, and is a very wealthy and cosmopolitan city that seems much bigger than its stated population of 200,000. Barney and I easily found accommodation in a quaint old family-run hotel with high ceilings and a view of the harbor. It was on the waterfront near the ancient center of Palma. The only problem was that at all times of day there were smelly fumes wafting in the window from the endless procession of noisy taxis and buses. Here the architecture and street layout are very similar to Genoa’s: vaguely moorish-looking buildings and narrow streets, nearly as labyrinthine as the Kearsarge’s corridors. The cathedral is particularly impressive, though it was closed when I was there.

I do imagine that many ports around the world cringe when they view the superstructure of American warships appearing over the horizon. This is not because of the warlike ambitions of the many young sailors who disembark—they could care less about geopolitics—but because for several days the bars will be full of alcohol-fueled merriment—and occasionally some fighting between, say, Navy personnel and Marines. Barney and I were lucky because not only do young sailors care nothing about politics, they care even less about historic old ports: ninety percent of the Kearsarge’s crew absconded to a beach on the northwest corner of Mallorca, and we were left to wander about among the Mallorcans, the numerous vacationers from Hamburg and Milan, the pigeons—and the diesel fumes. Note: many European cities, including such citadels of culture as Rome and particularly London, fairly wilt in a miasma of fumes.

I found the Mallorcans to be extremely friendly—perhaps one of the friendliest populations in Europe outside of Rhodes (our next stop). They do prefer one to make some attempt at their language, which is emphatically not Castellano (Castilian Spanish). Rather, it is Mallorcan, a close relative of Catalan (Catalonia being the nearest region of peninsular Spain). At least I could have learned a few words of Mallorcan before coming to the island; because I’d neglected to do so, I was rather haughtily told on one occasion that the proper way to say “buenos días” was “bon dí.” One thing I enjoyed about Barney was that he had no particular agenda. Like him, I’ve never been one for draining myself of every ounce of stamina in a search of the most obscure sights; instead I merely enjoy walking the old streets, watching and listening to the people, and talking. Of course, with Barney there was never a shortage of the latter: he was one of the most voluble and entertaining people I’d ever known. We would eat at the various sidewalk cafés along the waterfront, with the Kearsarge, tied up like a sullen gray elephant in the harbor, clearly visible. Then we would sit for hours drinking sangría and talking. At least Barney did—between cigarettes. I mainly drank sangría and listened. The drink failed to mute the uproarious sarcasm. It turned out that Barney’s main interest was his flower garden. The problem was that it had, for some odd reason that I never fully understood, gotten out of hand. Indeed, it had gotten to be so much work that Barney had had to sign up for the most recent of his many tours with PACE.

“You mean to tell me that your garden chased you into the Navy?” I said.
“That and my mother,” Barney said, with his customary intense glower and nodding head. 

It turned out that this 64-year-old retired teacher and naval officer had an 84-year-old mother who, although sick, had reduced Barney at times to exasperation because of his inability to manage her comings and goings. Over our eight weeks together, Barney would make numerous calls from the ship to his home, and I would get regular reports. It turned out that his 20-year-old Siamese cat, which had recently become bored with its life and decided to branch out in new directions, had driven him out as well. The cat, Barney, and his mother lived together in their ancestral home on several acres, the pressure of which apparently became unbearable at times, propelling Barney into several difficult weeks at sea for a vacation.

On our second day on Mallorca, Barney and I rode an old-fashioned narrow-gauged electric railway to the north coast of the island. This railway was part of the well-developed rail system that connects various part of the north and central part of the island, which is about the size of Delaware. On the roughly one-hour ride, we traveled through some stunningly beautiful countryside, quite dry and rocky, with an occasional small town, each with its requisite spires and windmills, dotting the slopes of big brown mountains. Perhaps because the sight of actual people or vehicles was rare, this landscape seemed remarkably static, depopulated, even timeless, as if Don Quixote were about to ride out of a patch of evergreens in pursuit of his Dulcinea. Our destination was the town of Soller, where, in a gorgeous beach location, we had lunch and drank a carafe of the local red wine. The little white town spread out in the sun like sheets on a clothesline. Its port was the subject of perhaps the most famous travel portrait on the island. Small ships and fishing vessels dotted a harbor of the clearest blue. Beyond the headland and through the mouth of the harbor, the Mediterranean, placid on this part of the coast, stretched luxuriously into a blue infinity.

Meanwhile, the Kearsarge had gotten restless and demanded our return. On the afternoon of our third day in Mallorca, we steamed out of Palma’s harbor, past the ancient stone breakwater, and watched the mountains, marching down the opposite side of the island, become hills, and then... nothing. Dusk came on in a widening swath of light clouds to the west, through which the sun eased, increasingly oblong, like a basketball going flat.

We were now on our way to Sardinia, which we would only circle several times, and then to Greece. This would be the most rigorous part of our tour, because exercises with both the Italian and Greek navies kept us out to sea—or later, engaged in war games with the Greeks in their myriad islands. We spent several days moving about within sight of Mount Olympus, whose snowcap was just visible. 

Because of the month between port calls, life on board the Kearsarge became somewhat grim. There were a few fights in the enlisted men’s quarters and considerable tension between the Marines and the Navy. Navy people tend to resent the Marines because the latter don’t do much. Occasionally a few will be assigned to work details, but mostly they just eat, work out, and float around. Navy people resent being considered service personnel, and note that without themselves the aristocracy would have no ship to be valorous on.

It should be noted that even on such a tremendous vessel as the Kearsarge there is nothing to do and nowhere to go. True, within the labyrinth of twisting corridors that snake through at least three levels (not counting the superstructure) there are hundreds of small rooms, dormitories, and operational facilities. But only a small number of these areas allow unrestricted admission. The most popular after-hours gathering place is the library, but it is so small and the demand for its services so great that you almost have to climb over people to get to the books. There is a small number of computers under a low bulkhead, but the line is so long that you are allowed only a few minutes to check email. This is quite frustrating for an age group that thrives on computer games. Occasionally the ship will show a movie in the large bay compartment where the helicopters are kept. I went only once, and watched as several sailors replaced one small screen with a bigger one—right in the middle of the film. Sailors don’t seem to pay much attention to such absurdities. When I asked them about this particular incident, they replied that it was normal for operations to be undertaken before there were adequate facilities, or even a place for them to be undertaken. The navy, like any large organization, is rife with stories of incompetence and situations so preposterous that they seem to be elaborately constructed to be so.

As for us teachers, Barney was a big help in that he would take me in tow and fearlessly plow down the passageways ahead of me. Though such trips were ostensibly designed to orient me to the immensely confusing layout of the ship, we usually wound up on one of the smoke decks. One deck, on the port (left) side, was completely enclosed. The other, starboard, was a long, narrow platform on the side of the ship, so low above the water that you would sometimes be sprayed with surf. At any time of the day, you could view a big crowd of ne’er- do-wells on this deck, smoking—and sometimes, avoiding work. On the other deck, the poorly-ventilated indoor one, the smoke was too much for me. Noting my discomfort as he lit his second, then third cigarette from the previous ones, Barney would laugh uproariously and say, “Why should I care if tobacco kills me early? So what if I don’t spend my last decade in the nursing home like you will?”

On Sundays, there were, of course, religious services. Although the Kearsarge was equipped with only two chaplains, one Catholic and one Protestant, space and time was provided for Jewish, Muslim, and of all things, Wiccan services. 

When I told Barney about the latter, I caught the old cynic up short: his jaw dropped. “There are witches on this tub?” he said. 

Curious, and frankly amused, I attended several meetings. I found that the Kearsarge’s Wiccans seemed not at all nonplussed by the incongruous nature of their presence on a warship. It seems that only the older crew found anything bizarre about witches and warlocks being on their ship. The young, brought up on Dungeons and Dragons and all sorts of Celtic mythology, not to mention video games, thought nothing of it. The services were comprised almost totally of individual statements of belief that seemed to have little in common, plus much talk of video games. Nevertheless, though I found little compelling in these activities, I left the ship impressed by the sincere courtesy of the kids involved. 

The school term was over, and Barney and I were scheduled to disembark at Rhodes, the easternmost island of Greece Anyone interested in Greece or this part of the Mediterranean should consider a week or so on this lovely, amiable island. Like Mallorca, it is fairly arid and bakes in the emphatic sunlight. From the Palace of the Nights, in “Old Town” Rhodes City, there is an excellent view down to the harbor. In fact, the view is almost a stereotype of what a beautiful, sun-drenched Greek island should look like: a warren of ancient stone houses, churches, government buildings, and even the spire of a minaret. On our first day in Rhodes, Barney and I found a restaurant within the Palace, where, again, we drank red wine and he smoked. We could clearly see the Kearsage floating outside the harbor (which was considerably too small to contain such a big ship), almost as if it were being dangled several feet above the city in a one-dimensional universe. 

Barney was relaxed and seemed to be looking forward to his return to Plymouth. His mother had had a positive check-up and was doing fine. And the Siamese had apparently found himself again. On impulse, I asked Barney what he wanted out of life. What I meant by such a naive question, the question of a much younger man than Barney, was merely to explore what motivated him to float around on a piece of metal, particularly when he enjoyed a rather luxurious material life at home.

Things often seemed purposeless and aggravating, he replied, looking vaguely annoyed by my question. And of course he was no longer young, so it was senseless to “want something” out of a life that was becoming more and more finite to him. 

“But sometimes,” he continued, “in Spring, when the flowers begin blooming, I have hope. I don’t know why, but I do.”

Barney and I had found a room in a charming hotel only a couple of blocks from the beach for only $30.00 per night. The ocean here was quite gentle, clean, and well-guarded. I went for a swim while Barney napped. Afterward, I climbed the narrow stone street to the hotel and sat on the terrace. Before me was the northwestern coast of Rhodes Town, which was, of course, more modern than the Old Town, but not much less atmospheric. My memory is of a series of white and yellow geometric shapes, a riot of cubes and rectangles, and of blue swimming pools. In the far distance were the brown brooding mountains of Turkey. 

When Barney woke we went out to eat, walking down the steep streets into the commercial center of Rhodes Town. It must be said that this is a city of cats. They would be everywhere, placidly lying around in the parks, not minding at all as Barney and I, both cat lovers, would scratch their ears. I soon found that, uphill, in the numerous patches of woods, there were more cats, mostly semi-feral. In fact, there were thousands of them. Somehow, Barney had discovered this on his own and pointed out that there was a different pride of cats every hundred feet or so along the road. He had bought some Little Friskies at the grocery, and we lingered on our walk home. We sat on the crumbling stone wall by the road and lured, in series, five families of cats. Barney would put down food, and while the cats were distracted, scratch their ears. 

At last, Barney and I went up to the hotel and lay down on our respective sides of the cool, breezy room. The room was lit by a quarter moon, brilliant in the clean, dry air, and I could see it through the open door to our balcony. Almost instantly, Barney was snoring. I lay awake a while, listening as the wind came up hard in the dusk, hard and fast. It gusted through the hotel, slamming doors down the hall. Bazooki music was spiraling up from the cantinas in Rhodes Town. As I lay there drifting toward sleep, I thought of the Kearsarge afloat just off the coast on the other side of the island. The previous day, on the skiff that had disembarked us, I had turned and taken several pictures of it. The water was so smooth that the ship looked as if it sat entirely atop it. It was a feature of the water, the island, the sky, and would remain there forever. The slight breeze was salty-clean. I had glanced over at Barney, who was looking at me with that penetrating gaze. He said, “It always happens to the new ones.”

In the room, the bazooki music was fading in and out on the wind. The Kearsarge would be sailing soon from Rhodes to continue its tour, to Cyprus, the Red Sea, then to Naples. It would go without me. The next day I would begin the arduous flight back to Tallahassee, Florida. Barney would make the shorter journey, to Plymouth, where his mother, Siamese cat, and flower garden awaited him. There, he would begin a new cycle of cultivation and flowering, and eventually return once again to the sea.