Captains Courageous and Other Idols Destroyed

Dearest reader, I understand how one might weary when forced to endure the endless proclamations of doubt that constitute the bulk of my blog. But while you cry for your own pain, please shed a sympathetic tear for your humble narrator! My own doubts are real; they truly are the demons that nip at my proverbial toes during the cold pre-dawn hours. And these demons have coupled with the incipit voice of social criticism. At first, their bastard love child left me a quivering mass of human detritus barely able to stem the idiot drool constantly poised to soil my shirts! But repeated exposure to a couple questions has steeled my nerves, and thus, before you stands the upright citizen to whom many of you doff your caps in the street with nary a backward glance.

One thing people ask me when I tell them I have been hired to serve as a librarian aboard a cruise ship is, “is that a real job?” At first this query seemed the height of amusement—I could hardly believe it either! A librarian? On a cruise ship? Great Scots man! Can there be such an unlikely beast? Can we call such an undertaking a “job?” One wit claimed that I was perfectly suited to the position as, after many arduous years spent studying English, I had finally mastered the 26 key points of the job. The photographs of the library (actually labelled a “lounge” on the ship’s deck plan) that shall be my workplace have left me with the impression that I probably have more books in my bedroom than there are in the few bookcases that are to be my responsibility. And, as I own nothing by Stephanie Meyers, Dan Brown, or J K Rowling, my own collection is indubitably of a higher literary calibre. But where does this line of questioning and self-deprecation lead me? Am I in for a rather tumultuous transition once I finally take my post?

The second question I am routinely asked concerns recent events off the coast of Italy. People ask me something such as, “are you worried that your boat might sink? Look what happened with the Costa Concordia!” First of all, I feel obliged to point out that I shall be working on a “ship” not a “boat.” This is a key piece of nautical terminology. Absolutely vital. You sound like the most inbred turnip-farming hick when you confuse “boat” and “ship.” Secondly, no. No, I do not fear for my safety. We all take insane risks everyday when we drive about in our automobiles blithely unaware that all manner of drunken pervert troll the streets of our fair cities and towns in search of cheap thrills. Why just the other day I, idiotically pleased by my good fortune, jumped into a friend’s car without a second thought. What if she was some sort of adrenaline junkie just coming off a 3 day meth and “Fast and the Furious” bender only too eager to drag race the next Honda Civic filled with equally death-prone teenagers? No, the only fear I have after the sinking of the Costa Concordia is a fear that my ideals have been tarnished forever. I always had an unexamined mental image of the brave captain who would always choose to go down with the ship. Yes, this captain, attired in a spotless uniform, would stand with his whiskers trimmed and his hands folded sedately behind his back as the waves began to wash in: a proud man and a study in stoic resolve. Also sexism I suppose. I apologise for that; he looks something like Gregory Peck in my mind’s eye. Regardless of my own unexamined sexism though, I always assumed that the captain chose to go down with the ship, but I have read that Captain Schettino might be charged with abandoning ship. Gone are my romantic images of the honourable captain! If it is a legal obligation, the lustre of self-sacrifice is made impossible. Oh foolish legislators! When will you let captains be captains again? Free to roam the oceans and, yes, to go down to a watery grave if and when they feel compelled!

Thus, questions have left me perhaps more confused than ever. Days like these make me wish I were the porcine lad pictured above with a manly captain to protect me.