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I had been lured by the promise of a Mediterranean cruise, so in April 2001 I left Portsmouth, Virginia on the USS Kearsarge. That’s when Barney, an ex-lieutenant commander in the navy, became my best friend. Barney was an acerbic, 64- year-old Italian-American chain-smoker from Plymouth, Massachusetts. Because he had pursued graduate studies in History, his idea of a good time was to examine the farcical aspects of his subject. We would spend evenings together in the ward room, the large officers’s dining room, which was deserted after nine P.M. Sitting over cups of the most god-awful coffee that either one of us had ever tasted, I learned from him that if Preparation H had been invented in 1815, Napoleon might have spent less time doctoring his derriere and moved his troops into position in time to defeat the Duke of Wellington. Barney also enjoyed thinking up preposterous ideas to make money. His most exciting idea was to establish Barney’s Billing Company. He had the idea that if he merely sent out hundreds of thousands of bills, for such small amounts as 2.73, or 3.10, he could get rich. The bills would not be for services rendered, mind you, but as many people would be too busy to examine them, they would just be paid, no questions asked. Barney and I were instructors employed in the US Navy’s PACE (Programs for Afloat College Education) program. Barney taught History and I, English. Our classroom was situated deep in the bowels of the ship. Thus it should have been less susceptible to wave motion than if it had been on the upper levels. But frequently I found myself lurching around in front of my class like a drunk man. I remember saying that if my regular bosses stateside had seen me like that, they would have fired me. My students just looked at me impassively. They’d heard all the jokes before.

The island of Mallorca is the largest of the Balearic Islands which have historically  been claimed by both Spain and Catalonia. The landscape of Mallorca is diverse: olive groves, pine forests, fertile valleys and underground lakes. Frederic Chopin moved to Mallorca in 1838 to recover from tuberculosis with his companion French writer George Sand. Chopin said of Mallorca: "The air is as blue as the water".

But the navy is itself a source of severe stress. Every sailor has a specific job, whether it’s in guided missile technology or peeling potatoes. He or she must work about sixteen hours a day, while being given around eight for sleep. But frequently work impinges upon even this small sliver of relaxation. Mainly this is because crewmen are forced to work split shifts, giving them insufficient time for genuine rest. Taking classes on top of all this is a frequently insuperable pressure. Frequently during my term on the Kearsarge, I found myself in front of a classroom of students so tired that many would simply go to sleep at their desks. Naturally, a teacher experiences this in stateside college classrooms, but this was the first time that I felt compelled, out of compassion, not to wake my exhausted students. There were couches at the rear of the long, rolling classroom, and often sailors would sneak back there and sack out. At least I knew that my students had not been out partying the night before. I was told that this condition of severe fatigue, which sometimes reduced a few of my younger students to a state of dull, staring incomprehension, was intentionally devised as a part of ship discipline. The older ones seemed to be used to four hours of sleep a night, and because of their diligence—and intelligence—they became my mainstay. They were every teacher’s ideal students—and, I might add, the most deserving people for a pay raise I’ve ever met. 

Barney shared not only my compassion, but also the classroom. Before long, he got into it with the Marines over this classroom. No, not the entire Marine Corps, though I almost think that this old salt, with his pugnacious stare alone, could have held his stateroom while under assault by a couple of assault regiments. The Marines I speak of were the ones moving single-file through the corridors all over the ship. Keep in mind that even a vessel as large as the Kearsarge (an amphibious assault ship 844 feet in length that looks almost exactly like an aircraft carrier) is mightily congested when a full crew of nearly 3,000 Navy personnel and Marines are on board. Directly outside the classroom was the barbershop, where there was always a line of Marines laughing and joking with each other while they waited to get their heads shaved. Many times I saw Barney get a mean expression and jerk his own shaved head out the door to dress down a number of noisy Marines. Despite these fearsome jousts, however, and Barney’s fury, this problem was to remain with us for the remainder of the cruise. (Though every time that Barney exploded, things would calm down for a while.).

My primary motive for joining the cruise was not so much the money but the port visits we would undertake in the Mediterranean. After a first unremarkable stop at Rota, and then a passage so hazy through the Straits of Gibraltar that virtually nothing was visible past a few of the satellite ships that follow any vessel the size of the Kearsarge around, we approached the Spanish Balearic island of Mallorca, in the Mediterranean.

First occupied by the Phoenicians, Sardinia is famous for its ancient architecture which is typlified in the conical shaped towers known as nuraghis that dot the island.

. 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.

“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.
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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.

The Acropolis of Lindos on the Island of Rhodes. Built on top of a large rock overlooking the sea and completed in the 9th century B.C. The acropolis was burned down in 342 B.C. If you go to Rhodes rent a car and drive to the remote beach Prassonisi: nice spot.

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.
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