Forlorn Hope: A Shared World

I arrived at Hank’s Oyster Bar first and seated myself so I could see the door. Larry Slagle, a good friend of mine, walked in slowly, just a few minutes behind me. He’s in his 80s now and I’m 23. I graduated college last year; he finished in 1956.

Shot by Larry off the coast of Cochin, India

We shook hands gently – his hand frail in mine – and he smiled at me. His hair is white now and talking to him makes me miss my grandpa. We talked extensively, as we always do. After my sophomore summer internship in D.C. had ended, I’d left the city and it had been a few years since our last lunch. We had lots to cover.

We shared a three-course meal, seated at a small table in the corner of Hank’s calm dining room. We started with a decision Larry respected: my recent return from China. That discussion led us to Coronavirus, of course: our mains. Discussing the virus brought us to cruises. Dessert. We then debated the merits of Larry going on a Caribbean and Barcelona-bound cruise. There were several cruise ship stories circulating at the time that didn’t inspire confidence and I’m sure he understood that elderly people were some of the most at-risk for the virus. Neither of us raised those concerns aloud, however. Eventually, he would decide to go ahead with it. I respected that.

***

Larry was somewhere off the coast of Cuba on a Viking cruise ship, heading towards St. Martin, when I heard from him a few weeks ago, just after the start of his cruise. He wrote me from his room as a squall hit the deck and a swell lifted the boat. It was early Saturday afternoon.

I’ve never been on a cruise. I likely never will. They strike me as incubators for germs, mediocre food, and being unable to travel with much autonomy. It’s something Larry and I can’t agree on. He has taken cruises all over the world and been to more countries than most people ever will. One of my favorite stories he tells is about being docked on an island off the coast of Cochin, India many years before I was born. While there, he and a friend were able to wrangle a fisherman into taking them across the ship channel to Cochin, leaving the cruise ship – and its more amoebic passengers – behind.

Naval ship off the rower's shoulder

I pictured him, as if I'm sitter in the rower's seat, laughing and relaxing in the boat, being ferried around in the sunshine without much else on his mind as a young guy (not dissimilar to my own approach to seeing Bangkok). It’s a version of him I’ll never have the pleasure of knowing. The stories will have to do. This time, though, the Diamond Princess and Grand Princess catastrophes were supporting my case against cruise-bound traveling. As I sat in D.C. and he sat on deck in the sun somewhere near the equator, the picture I had of him wasn’t one of carefree relaxation on the southern Indian coast; instead, it involved a mask and questions about the healthcare system of whichever country he was nearest to. I worried about him.

His first update from the boat brought us back to an earlier discussion we’d had as I was thinking about leaving China in January: How do we make the right decisions? For me, it meant an attempt at predicting the future of the virus outbreak. It was trying to guess at how I’d feel after weeks alone in my apartment. For Larry, contemplating the cruise was a battle between waiting for as much information as possible and being decisive. I left China; he went on the cruise. Something pushed Larry forward, into the unknown at a time of uncertainty. Something else brought me rushing back. I wasn't sure either of us had made the ‘right’ decision.

Luckily, after Larry’s initial email from the boat, it was only two days before I heard from him again. Monday night. He was heading towards Barcelona after stopping off at St. Martin. He wrote of the island: “I would not want to visit for long. It’s overcrowded, too much traffic, and with predominant activities seeming to be sun-bathing, casino gambling, drinking, eating, and chicken fighting. Off tonight for several hundred miles in the Atlantic. While writing this, I’m listening to classical music from the Grand Piano in the ship’s living room. Very nice.”

I love his perspective; everything about St. Martin sounded fantastic to me. Another thing we can’t agree on. We settled, instead, on a mutual appreciation for music from a grand piano. I opened Spotify and put some on, so I could hear the sounds of his life on deck. As I read the rest, a few paragraphs about someone named Cathy, a hotel manager in Vicksburg, I could see her through his writing: “Cathy wears a braid that falls below her waist, sported no makeup, and glowed with good health.” I liked her immediately.” His writing has a calming effect on me, whether it be about Cathy, decision-making, or some ex-NASA engineer named Bruce.

Larry went on, “COVID-19 is rarely discussed, although it’s on everyone’s mind. Politics is something one tiptoes around until the other person’s leanings are divined. In a conversation last evening, after deciding she was on safe ground, a woman named Amy, describing Trump supporters exclaimed, ‘They look normal, but they’re not.’ The lectures have been good; one yesterday explored the conflict between England’s dependency on the South’s cotton during our Civil War and the growing anti-slavery campaign mounted in England by Wilberforce…”

There was still one question that gnawed at me, even throughout his largely peaceful dispatches, almost entirely encapsulated in the above discourse: Why even take the damn cruise? I’d had enough time to formulate a guess as he sailed over the course of the week, but I wanted to know for sure. He replied late on Tuesday evening. I flipped open my laptop and sat at my desk to read.

He replied, thoughtfully: “Instinctively, I wanted to continue. Analytically, I was dealing with competing uncertainties. At home, there would be many uncertainties, even if I limited them by staying at home: risks abounded if I were to visit stores, ride on the Metro, go to church. Et cetera!" [A church in Georgetown was closed the day before in response to the outbreak.]

"On this particular cruise, the ship was small, and passengers were to be screened before boarding. It was to be an Atlantic crossing with few stops. After cancellations there would be room for social distancing,” he continued, as I hung his words. “An emphasis on hand washing and sanitizing. No need to go out for food or supplies. As I see it, fewer uncertainties, making it an easy decision. I think the blanket guidance not to cruise is an over-reaction. People should consider the risks, weigh them, and decide for themselves.”

I laughed to myself. It was exactly the measured response I’d expected from him. And it made total sense. Somehow, amidst all the panic, Larry was making rational choices. The picture of him shifted again in my head. Gone was the masked, hospital-ridden Larry, replaced by one him as he actually is, the figure forced out by the young spirit he still possesses. He doesn't need to be imagined as anything else.

I’m supposed to be a traveler, a survivor. I think Larry will be the first to suggest that. But I was scared for my future in that potentially deathly environment. He wasn’t. He’d weighed the risks and now stood by his decision. That, to me, is the ‘right’ conclusion.

I think about our next inevitable hangout, after the quarantine lifts. It’ll probably be lunch at Hank’s again. We both enjoy the food. It might be a baseball game, although that prospect feels unlikely for now. Either way, his cruise – and this lockdown keeping us from having lunch – made me realize I need to stop talking and listen more. Larry’s younger island-hopping, train-to-NOLA, Mexico-for-work self may be gone, but there are still stories I need to hear.

Larry (middle) and I at a Nationals game in '17

At lunch before the trip, he wanted to hear from me. He wanted to listen to my stories. It took work to get him to share about himself; he’s quiet and listens intently. But the truth, the experiences, still shine in his eyes. When I initially emailed him on the boat, asking that he write down details and observations aboard the cruise ship, I had no doubt that his eyes were shining the same way they were when he was in a rowboat in a ship channel off the coast of India. I can feel that in his writing.

I was relieved to receive his final message from the ship – several days into the Pacific – before he returned to D.C. in the middle of March: "Viking has suspended operations until May 1. We have turned around and are heading back to Miami. Not a bad solution, given events."

His homeward-bound email made me reexamine my troubled feelings about returning from China – even as cases of coronavirus in the U.S. skyrocket and quarantine extends. I realized then, as I read, that staying in China would have meant missing Hank’s, baseball games, and stories of India. Flying – or sailing – home doesn’t constitute failure.

Our returns are simply a reminder that we both gave adventure our best effort, a reminder of why I cherish my friendship with Larry. There are more opportunities coming. I know our adventurous spirits will spurn us onwards to islands, grand pianos, and worlds beyond our D.C. apartments, where, for now, we wait patiently and quietly.