Saturday, 7 May 1955
Happy 23rd Birthday, Ruth!
The sports deck of the Ryndam when the weather cleared: Jack, from Seattle; Ruth, the birthday girl; Ria, from Holland; Don, from Scotland; Will, from London, via Ireland.
The ship is pitching and rolling, perhaps 15 degrees, and it’s getting on our nerves. Precious few passengers show up for breakfast this morning. The tablecloths are wetted down, table rails are up, there are no saucers under the coffee cups, chairs are anchored to the deck, and hand lines strung up along passageways and public rooms.
Waves are breaking as high as the portholes on A deck and without letup. The portholes alternate between full of sky and then ocean.
A rainbow breaks through the murky overcast in the afternoon on the port side. At dinner everyone sings Happy Birthday to Ruth.
We adjourn to the aft lounge for drinking with our new shipboard buddies: Scots, William, Jack, Pat, Ria, who is a Dutch police officer assigned to juvenile delinquents (I didn't know they had them) and two girls from Connecticut join us, one a political pundit who is unfortunately a bit choleric. The Scots and Will (aka Paddy) bristle at her attitude of “if anyone doesn’t like it in the USA, go home!”
We have the bar chill our send-off bottle of champagne from my former studio room mate Len and his wife but the bar steward makes a scene about not wanting to serve it, all the while opening it, as it’s against a company rule – he says – but a dollar tip convinces him to continue removing the cork. In the ship’s pecking order, bar stewards seem to be the most pompous, mess stewards more democratic and easier to please.
One serving the table behind us is always imitating American passengers. “Waiter, bring me water with my meals” seems to delight him no end.