Fiction by Jeanne Lawson

Ships Passing

“Ships that pass in the night, and speak [to]each other in passing, Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the dark­ness; So on the ocean of life, we pass and speak one another, Only a look and a voice, then dark­ness again and a silence.” Tales of a Wayside Inn by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 

It was not a plea­sure trip. The pub­lish­er of a busi­ness trade mag­a­zine offered me a free­lance assign­ment requir­ing a trip across the Atlantic Ocean to Cadiz, Spain. I grabbed it as fast as an eagle devours a freshly caught salmon. I trav­eled from my home in Maine to New York, where I boarded the ship and spent ten days on the MS Queen Mar­garet, named after the Queen of Denmark, Norway, and Sweden. The ocean liner’s maiden voyage was in 1936, when she left Gothen­burg, Sweden, and trav­eled to New York. The ship was being retired, and the pub­lish­er wanted a story. 

Anders Fredriks­son designed the ocean liner before World War II. He vehe­ment­ly protest­ed when the Kriegs­ma­rine, the German Navy, com­man­deered the ship during the war, and Nazi offi­cers and their fam­i­lies enjoyed its ameni­ties. The designer’s grand­son, Erik Fredriks­son, a sea captain of cargo liners, agreed to captain the ship’s final cruise. 

Captain Fredriksson’s duties were demand­ing for the first few days of the journey. Instead of meeting with him, I inter­viewed the First Officer, the Boatswain’s Mate, and the Lec­tur­er. Although I researched the history and sig­nif­i­cance of the liner, I learned one new tidbit: The ship had been called the “Orient Express” of the sea because of her elegant service and opulent passengers. 

On the third day of the trip, I inter­viewed Captain Fredriks­son, who gave me a tour of where he thought I could take the best pic­tures to accom­pa­ny the article. He was formal and humble. I guessed he was about forty years old. His rugged, weath­ered, and agree­able face was perfect for the article. I saw him with a pipe in his mouth adver­tis­ing Borkum Riff tobacco. The inter­vie­wee elicit­ed all the answers I would expect from a reserved pro­fes­sion­al. But I wanted more of a per­son­al spin. I asked, “Can you share a memory of your grand­fa­ther?” He said he could not recall any­thing special. I kept quiet, and my silence per­suad­ed him to share a sweet story about how his grand­fa­ther taught him to ski when he was eight years old at the Vem­dalen ski resort in Sweden. 

After the inter­view, I worked in my cabin nonstop to meet my dead­line. While pouring over my notes, I real­ized I needed the captain to clarify two details. He offered to meet me in his private lounge and ordered coffee and cake. This second meeting was more relaxed and genial than our first. He even asked me to call him Erik. 

After answer­ing my ques­tions, he unbut­toned his uniform jacket, offered me more coffee, and asked me how I became a writer. I planned to give him a generic response but decided to reveal the truth. “My husband died five years ago. When I knew his death was around the corner, I prayed for God to give me some­thing mean­ing­ful to do when I was all alone.” Erik stared and lis­tened intent­ly. “After he died, I remem­bered that I always wanted to improve my writing skills. I started taking college English classes, and then I real­ized that this is what God gave me to do – write. I write fiction but also seek out paying free­lance busi­ness stories like this one because I have an MBA.”

 When I fin­ished speak­ing, Erik did not say any­thing. He averted his eyes from mine and looked down at his hands resting on his thighs. His eyes focused on his wedding band. “I stopped praying after my wife died three years ago. I was angry and denied God access to me. Did prayer help after your husband died? Does the grief get any easier?” Erik asked.

“Yes, to both ques­tions. I still think about my husband every day, but I found after the third anniver­sary, I stopped crying all the time and felt less depressed.” My sense was Erik was in a place I knew well. “I leaned on God during my husband’s illness as I do today. I once read that we need to travel through our grief no matter how painful or ugly it gets and break­through to the other side. Then we can enjoy the love we shared with our spouse in a peace­ful way.” I saw Erik’s face change. Sud­den­ly, he began to sob. Not weeping but a deep, gut-wrench­ing cry. I let him get it out. When he fin­ished, I dropped to my knees beside him and held his hands in mine. I said a silent prayer for God to ease his pain. He talked about his wife and their life togeth­er for two hours. I lis­tened. That was what I thought he needed—someone to listen to his feel­ings about his loss.

When Erik stopped talking, I said, “Don’t worry – this won’t go in the article.” We both laughed, and his face looked at peace. I thanked Erik for trust­ing me enough to share his story. 

I barely saw Erik for the rest of the cruise. We never spoke but only smiled from a dis­tance. I left him a message to arrange a time to say goodbye and thank him for the inter­view, but I never heard back from him. As I joined the other dis­em­bark­ing pas­sen­gers in Cadiz, I saw Erik on an upper deck. He waved and beck­oned me to join him above. We spoke briefly, and he handed me an enve­lope. I invited him to come to Maine but doubted he would. “I’ve been praying since we last met – it feels good. Maine is a place I want to visit.”  I wasn’t expect­ing that. But I knew he would love seeing the Atlantic Ocean from my back porch.