TWILIGHT ZONE ON BOARD...

We noticed him every day.  Always in the same place.  A distinguished gentleman with white hair and a prominent white moustache, a cane resting at his side.  He would sit in the corner of the Constellation Lounge, looking at the panorama view of wherever we were.  He would read the newspaper and occasionally do crossword puzzles.  And never spoke to anyone.  In fact, people appeared to give him a wide berth.

Who was he?  Where did he come from?  More importantly, where was he going?  Finally, I got up enough courage to ask him how many cruises he had been on?  He obviously was alone, or so it appeared. He turned to me, assessed his questioner, and then prepared to answer.

"I live on the ship.  I've lived on Regent ships for 12 years now," he said in measured tones. "My wife and I lived on the Navigator for 5 years, until she passed.  Then I moved to the Voyager and was there for 7 years.  But they aren't going to be going to the U.S. anymore -- just back and forth from Australia to Europe and back to Australia.  So I moved to the Mariner."

"How do you like it," I asked.

He answered, "You know, the Voyager was my home.  It is a little hard.  I'm 88, you see, and change can be hard."

We continued our conversation -- about what ports he liked, what he had done with his life, what ports he disliked.  He had been in the Navy and then ran a company in Monaco. He and his wife owned an apartment in Monaco overlooking the harbor.  They maintained it for years, he said, hating to give up that part of their lives.  What ports did he like?  Well, he would put Australia and New Zealand at the top of the heap.

"I don't like India and the Far East," he continued.  "You know, we are not respected most places anymore.  Japan is okay.  Clean and polite to Americans.  But the rest, well, you can have 'em."

He said, somewhat sadly, "You know, you always think you'll be the one to go, when the time comes. So I put everything, all our assets, in my wife's name.  And, when she passed, I called all the attorneys, the children and grandchildren, the accountants together and started telling them what I wanted done.  The main attorney said, 'Did you ever read your wife's will, Harry?"  I had to tell him I hadn't read it. Why did I need to.  And he said, very succinctly, 'Because she has put everything you and she had -- everything -- in trust with your son as the trustee.' That was quite a shock.  I had control of nothing.  From all my years of work."

My comment seemed a little trite. "Sure hope," I said, "your son likes you a lot."  He answered, "He just visited me for 3 weeks on the ship.  So far so good."

I asked him if he got an allowance or something, how he paid his bills.  And he told me his son took care of all of that.  And he really didn't need money anymore.  He had a credit card.  The ship provided him with all the meals he needed, the maid service he needed, and even looking after.  "After all," he pointed out, "they all know me by now!  And it's better than a nursing home."

After he left the lounge, another guest turned to me and said he had seen the gentleman for years on all his cruises and had never seen him talking to anyone.  People seemed to give him wide berth, afraid to break his privacy.  I treasured the compliment and yet I was still disturbed.

I keep thinking of him, all alone sitting in that corner, staring out at the water.  And I wonder.  Is he happy?  Does he miss his kids, grandkids, friends, etc?  Or is a really just a lone wandering gentleman, waiting for the next chapter... Warehoused until the end.