Truth in Advertising Page 0,114
New York at the edit house. Jan is scheduled to come by tomorrow. We have a deadline to make. Super Bowl spot. Make your mark. Sorry, Martin. I’m running a little late this morning.
• • •
One imagines things, one plays out scenarios, populates them with people, things, colors, sounds. When I imagined this playing out, I saw clear Hawaiian skies, soft breezes, sun. I imagined a spotless, white pleasure boat, thirty feet long, with the only crew member a beautiful, dark-skinned woman of twenty-three. Cut to one mile out. Cut to me nodding gravely, dumping the ashes over the side, shrugging. Cut to my Polynesian friend fixing me a drink with dark rum, massaging my shoulders. Cut to a wide shot of us slowly heading back to shore.
Our cab drives through a shipyard that opens on massive, industrial piers. Most of the berths are empty, save for two, one an exceptionally large cargo ship, one smaller but still an awe-inspiring sight.
“Where’s our boat?” I ask Keita.
“There,” he says.
“I don’t understand.”
Our boat is different than I had imagined. It’s black, first of all. It’s also five hundred feet long and nine stories high. I learn that it is one of Keita’s father’s and that it’s scheduled to leave next week for Anchorage, via the ports of Los Angeles and Seattle. It will carry hundreds of tractor-trailer-sized containers holding many tons of pineapples, limes, flash-frozen mahi-mahi, macadamia nuts, and brown sugar. Today, empty, its only cargo will be the six-pound remains of Edward Lawrence Dolan, Sr.
Keita says, “What do you think?”
I say, “Do you have anything bigger?”
Keita says, “Short notice, Fin. If we wait until Wednesday there’s a 1,600-foot tanker coming in from Dubai.”
• • •
There are rooms with carpeting and bunks built into the wall. There is a dining room with a bar area. Tables bolted to the floor. We are offered coffee that is surprisingly good. My forearms ache from switching the box back and forth. Four to six pounds, the average remains. Anywhere from two to three hours at normal operating temperature between 1,500 and 2,000 degrees Fahrenheit. I can’t seem to put the box down.
Keita and I stand just below the bridge at a railing watching the pier recede.
Keita says, “Fin. There are many types of ships. Do you understand?”
I smile and nod. No, I don’t understand.
Keita says, “This. This is small ship. This is called Handy Size, up to 40,000 deadweight tons. Then there is Handymax, up to 50,000 deadweight tons. Then Aframax, up to 115,000 deadweight tons. Suezmax, the largest ship that can pass through the Suez Canal. Panamax, the Panama Canal. Malaccamax, the Malacca Strait.”
He turns and looks at the water. “Look, Fin. Seals.”
I turn and see a herd of seals, maybe eight, swimming off the right of the ship. Sleek and fast. They look like they’re playing.
Keita says, “Okay. Now we mention the big ships. VLCC, Very Large Crude Carrier, up to 320,000 deadweight tons. And the ULCC, Ultra Large Crude Carrier, up to 550,000 deadweight tons. Over 1,500 feet long. Okay. Maybe this is a big boat, Fin. Too big for our needs today.”
He turns to me. “I work at my father’s company for twenty-five years, since I was ten years old. He make me read everything, make me travel on them for months. I throw up. I miss home. I hate ships.”
• • •
We were met by a representative of the company, a Japanese man named Aki, early thirties, who is clearly in awe of being around Keita, son to the famous Nagori-San. Aki gives us a brief tour that ends on the bridge, high above the main deck, 360-degree views. Aki introduces Keita and me to the ship’s captain. His name is Swede Walker and he’s 6' 3" and has more hair on his forearms than I have on my head. He’s late fifties, tall, military bearing, brush cut, clean shaven, all business. From the few words he’s said I’d guess he’s from Oklahoma or Texas. I’d also guess that he hates me. Two other men are on the bridge with him, punching numbers into a computer. Both are quiet, deferential. One is Japanese and works for Keita’s father’s company and I don’t get his name. He’s training on the boat for a year. The other is named Larry, early thirties, James Taylor’s twin brother. He laughs a lot and looks like someone who might follow The Grateful Dead from city to city as a hobby.
Keita says something to the Japanese