The Last Cruise

The sky was overcast, making it a bit chilly on the bridge, but, following breakfast, I had gotten a sweater from the locker and had retreated from the galley where Corporal Pamela Clean-Dish had declared war on a troop of renegade pots and pans under the command of Old General Sticky-Egg himself. Both last Sunday's newspaper and I felt more at ease on the bridge --- away from the battle scene below deck.

I made myself comfortable in my favorite deck chair. I grasped the newspaper firmly in both hands and adjusted my arms to an acceptable newspaper reading position. I pulled down my captain's hat to keep the glare from my eyes. With that familiar-to-Pamela picture well pantomimed, I proceeded to peer over the top edge of the paper and to contemplate the slight movement of the water at the nearest point of shore to us. There were small, untimed ripples - caused no doubt by some small insect or fish playing in the water. When one contemplates, he does not have to concern himself with causes, or with reasons, or with effects. He merely lets his mind drift in a state of suspension focused only upon the object at hand. It is a restful state. The observer, now, is different. He must take the observed object apart, understand it, and connect it with everything else. The observer's mental gymnastics are tiring.

Then there is Pamela. She's neither an observer nor a contemplator. She must record what she sees. She must use it in some way such as by pointing it out to everyone else. Why, if I would have told her about those ripples in the water, she would have run below to get her camera.

"Click, snap, slap," the camera would have interjected into the silence.

"Do you think this is the right angle to shoot from, dear?" Pamela would have said. "Or would it be better from over here? Do I open up the lens and slow down the shutter or do I close the lens and open the back stop? What do these numbers here mean?"

Some people not only do not understand the art of contemplation, they do not grasp the frailness of it either. Left alone, a ripple may occupy a moment, an hour, or a whole morning. But assaulted in such fashion, the contemplative value of an object or scene is forever lost.

"It is best" I was thinking to myself, "for all concerned that the secret of contemplation be guarded carefully by those who know it and that all contemplating take place under appropriate camouflage."

"Are you contemplating again, dear?" Pamela's voice interrupted my thoughts.

"Hello, darling. Now what makes you say that? Can't you see that I'm reading about world affairs? Trying to broaden my knowledge so that I can say witty things at cocktail parties such as, 'Did you know that Prince Rhinoserous of Southwest Nironia is going to marry the daughter of the King of Pan Pan?'"

"Nonsense, dear. Your eyes were focused over the top of the paper and they had that far away glazed look to them," Pamela answered. "And please save that newspaper. It has a section in it I want to read."

Pamela has a way of leaving me absolutely naked when she sees through me like that. I shivered.

"You look chilly. Perhaps we should go below," she offered.

"Merely a momentary exposure which I shall try to avoid in the future," I replied. "Pamela, I've got a surprise for you."

"How nice. I do love surprises." Pamela returned my serve.

"We can take five extra days to spend any way we like. What would you care to do with five days?"

"Princess Louisa, of course. It's always been my favorite spot. For, say, half of the time anyway. You decide about the rest."

"Princess Louisa it is, and Happy Birthday," I said. "This is part of your present."

Soon we weighed anchor and slipped slowly away from the Harmonys. Freil Falls was partially hidden in the mist giving it a totally different look than it had had the day before when the sunlight was sparkling on its face.

Nearing Foley Head, the mist became thin patches of fog. As we negotiated the series of Reaches leading to Princess Louisa Inlet, the fog worsened steadily. When we were at a point where I calculated we should make the turn into the Malibu Rapids, the fog on that side of the Reach had become so dense that I knew I could not safely navigate the tricky entrance.

Since the time to run the rapids at slack water would soon expire, I decided that our best plan would be to push ahead to the end of the Reach and to anchor for the night at the edge of the Skwawka River Delta. In about 30 minutes we found ourselves safely anchored.

About 5:00 p.m. Pamela brought a tray of hors d'oeuvres and martinis to the bridge. The fog was now a thick bank filling the entire fjord except for the area where we were anchored. Minute-by-minute, the gray blanket was moving up the Reach toward us.

"Another hour or two of this and we'll be engulfed in it," I suggested.

"Good night for gin rummy below," Pamela responded. "Listen, do you hear that?" she continued.

"Hear what?" I demanded. "Seems quiet enough to me."

"I keep thinking that I hear engines out there. Not engines like ours, but like a ferry or a ship."

"But it's 5:30 p.m., dear. The last ferry for Princess Louisa leaves Vancouver at 4:00 p.m. It couldn't be here yet!"

"Make fun of me if you like, but I tell you I hear engines."

I'd hate to have to pay Pamela a dollar for every time she's been right about such things. I should have learned by now that if it can be heard, seen, or smelled, one should never challenge her report. But a ship coming up Queen's Reach? Preposterous!

"Now, Pam, before you build a whole fairy tale about this ferry of yours..."

"Be quiet and listen!" Pam interrupted.

To be frank, there was a low-pitched drone like a large diesel or steam engine. There was no denying that it was getting louder.

"Probably something going on at the Malibu Lodge," I suggested. "Sounds travel strangely in the fog. Who can tell what it might be? We may never know."

"Then again, we may," I thought to myself. That noise was getting loud enough so that whatever it was might be bearing down on us out of the fog at any moment.

"But what if they don't see us?" Pamela queried.

"Well, if it is a ship or ferry or large fishing boat, they might have radar. They'll be able to see us and the delta as well," I said reassuringly.

Suddenly, the noise stopped almost completely. The coming darkness was now combining with the fog to obscure our vision even more. We peered intently into the approaching fog bank. We listened alertly.

In a few minutes we heard the engines pounding again. But this time they sounded differently, as if they had been put in reverse.

Then she emerged out of the fog. First only her bow. Then, slowly, gracefully, she slipped into view and came to a stop only about one hundred yards from us. She was a ship, all right, way up here at the end of a deserted Reach. She appeared to be about 200 feet in length.

We stood there, mouths wide open and speechless while we heard the anchor being lowered. It was now so dark that we could barely make out her silhouette.

I startled Pamela by touching her. "Are you seeing what I am seeing?" I asked.

"I think so," she replied.

"Sometimes when I fall asleep, Pam, I dream strange things," I told her. "Would you mind pinching me? I know it's a bit old-fashioned, but ... ouch! Well, I just thought that I should check. What did you put in our martinis?"

"Just the usual," she replied.

As Pamela spoke, the ship began to show lights from the portholes. Strange, flickering lights like kerosene lanterns. What a sight! A maze of lights visible through the floating wisps of fog, now obscuring some lights; now dancing maiden-hair-like in front of others; now revealing some lights fully. It was a pageant - a fantasy that was indescribable.

"Pam, I'm going over there in our dinghy to have a closer look," I stated. "This is too unusual a thing to ignore."

"Not without me you're not," Pamela said. "Wait, I'll get the portable hailer."

We lowered the dinghy and climbed aboard with the hailer and a large flashlight. I rowed toward the ship. We passed quietly through the shimmering reflections of the ship's lights. "A ten foot dinghy seems pretty minuscule beside her," I commented.

As we neared that huge hull, the late summer chill in the air gave both of us a shiver. I rowed towards her bow and, with Pamela using the large flashlight we'd brought along, we searched for her name.

"There it is, Pam. 'Princess S-O-P-H-I-A'. This must be one of the Princess ships."

I rowed until we were about midship and tried the hailer.

"Ahoy! Princess Sophia!"

Silence.

I tried again with the volume turned higher. Something, a door perhaps, opened above us emitting sounds of people and music.

"Hey, down here in a dinghy."

The door banged shut. Silence.

The door opened again. I could barely see the figures of two men looking over the rail and down at us.

"Ahoy, Princess Sophia?" I said. "May we come aboard?"

Silence.

The door opened and closed.

Something was being lowered over the side. The object being lowered turned out to be a boarding ladder made of rope. When it reached the water line, I paddled to it and Pamela tied our bow line to a step.

"These are tricky things to climb, Pam," I counseled. "They swing away from you. We'll have to pretend we're Tarzan and Jane."

"That's a long way up there. I'm not sure I can make it," she replied.

"Pretend that we've been shipwrecked and this is the only way that you can be rescued," I suggested. "I'll hold the bottom until you're well along. You have to climb differently than with a regular ladder. Don't push out with your feet. Just go up, up, up."

I don't know if all this advice helped Pamela, but it made me feel better!

Eventually, after what seemed an eternity, we both reached the top and were helped on deck. There we were face-to-face with a rather stern looking Captain in full dress whites.

"Harvey's the name," I began. The captain remained silent.

"You see," I continued nervously, "I was contemplating some ripples in the water when my wife's ears tuned you in ... that is, she heard your engines."

"This is highly irregular, Owens," the Captain had found his voice. He could talk!

"My, Captain," Pamela interrupted, "you do look handsome in that white Captain's suit. You're the first real live ship Captain I've ever met. It must be just a great big responsibility to be in charge of a ship like this and all the people. Why, I'd be just overwhelmed if you'd show us your ship."

"Yes," the Captain's mouth moved. It was the only betrayal that he was not a wax statue. "As I was saying, this is highly irregular. However, you are here now. You have arrived just in time for dinner. You will join me at my table. You are not dressed as you should be, but no matter. Follow me."

"This man is used to telling, not asking," I thought. Pamela sensed my uneasiness, took me by the hand and led me inside in pursuit of the Captain.

Inside, the companionway was lighted by brass kerosene lanterns giving off their strange and romantic light and aroma. The lights revealed beautiful, deep wood grains on all sides and above. She was a lovely vessel. About 20 feet along the companionway, we entered the main dining room. It was alive with splendor and with people. Tables with white linen set with elegant sterling services dotted the massive room. On the far side from us, in a corner, was a small orchestra with strings, brass, and piano. They were playing softly as background. Waiters in white jackets, black ties and linen cloths over their arms mingled adroitly among the passengers as they delivered glasses with high-balls and bottles of spirits. Almost every man seated in the room had on a dark tuxedo, white shirt, and black bow tie. The ladies were dressed in long evening gowns.

. "How's the gin?" I asked a medium-sized man at a table we passed.

His reply was merely a scowl.

"Not a very friendly fellow," I complained in the direction of our Captain.

When we reached what appeared to be the Captain's table, a huge maitre d' hotel-type in a black tux lurched in front of us, blocking our path to follow the Captain.

"It's all right, Worster," the Captain sputtered.

"But, Sir, they ..." replied the maitre d'.

"I know," the Captain said. "This is Mr. and Mrs. Owens. Mrs. Owens, please sit here on my right and, Mr. Owens, on my left."

Worstershire, or whatever his name was, pulled out a chair for Pamela. He then seated me and finally the Captain. He then poured wine for the three of us. I caught a glimpse of the bottle-Bordeaux, 1916. "This Captain has expensive tastes," I thought.

"Captain," Pamela began, "if I had had any notion that a ship could be so lovely inside, so elegant, we would have signed on for a cruise a long time ago. Why, the atmosphere in here is simply out of a storybook."

"I am glad that you like her, my dear," the Captain said. "The ship was built in Bath, Maine, in 1914. She's a sound and fine ship."

"Well," I thought to myself, "this scowling Captain hasn't even told us his name, and he's 'my dearing' Pamela." I looked about. Strange, no one really looked happy, there was no laughter. Yet, there was plenty of conversation, music, and drink.

"I must apologize to you both," Captain Bly was still talking. "My name is Locke, Captain J.P. Locke."

"Where have you come from and where are you headed?" Pamela queried. "Cruise ships don't usually come up here, do they?"

"No, they don't," replied Captain Locke. "But, we're ahead of our schedule. We're not due in Juneau, Alaska, until the 24th of October. So, I decided that we'd explore some of the Inside Passage waters on the way."

"I didn't realize cruise ships went to Alaska this late in the season," Pam remarked.

"Oh, yes, indeed. We make the trip every year. Always have plenty of passengers, too. 268 passengers aboard and 75 officers and crewmen. Had the same number last year and the year before that," the Captain related.

"That's a lot of people for whom to be responsible," I interjected.

"Yes, I know," Captain Locke fell silent.

Dinner arrived. Roast beef, mashed potatoes with all the trimmings. I was hungier than I realized. Everything was delicious. While I was eating, I felt something brush my legs. It startled me. I pulled up the table cloth and looked under the table. There was a sad-eyed cocker spaniel about two-feet long with a bushy tail wagging.

"A dog!" I exclaimed. "Under the table!"

"Harvey!" Pamela snapped. "The wine, on top of the martinis! Dear, you know what that does to you. I must apologize, Captain Locke. The next thing you know, he'll have his shoes off and be contemplating his toes under the table. Really, Harvey!"

I missed Captain Locke's reply because I had ducked under the table to capture my visitor to show him to Pamela.

"Come here, Fido!" I called. "Now, where did you go?"

All I could see were feet. Big feet, small feet, male feet, female feet. Shoes of odd and assorted sizes and colors - all with legs attached. By crawling carefully, I managed to avoid most of the legs and feet.

"There you are, you pest. Now I'll get you."

A woman screamed. I had him almost in my hands, but he jumped when he heard the woman. "Now where did you go?" I exclaimed.

Suddenly, I realized that I had crawled right out from under the end of the table. I was in the middle of the dining room, on all fours, looking up at the guests and at two bull-dog-looking waiters facing me.

"I was trying to catch the little dog," I explained. I could see from the expressions on everyone's faces that I wasn't very convincing. "I'll just go quietly back to the table and let's forget the whole thing, all right?" I hurried off in the direction of the Captain's table without awaiting a reply.

"I'm afraid I made somewhat of a clown of myself," I said to our host upon returning to the table.

"Think nothing of it," replied the Captain. "I was just telling Mrs. Owens that you must have had an encounter with Triffles, our ship's mascot."

"You mean there really was a dog?" Pam asked.

"Oh, yes. Cute little fellow. Quite alert and cunning. Why, he's lived through experiences that would have killed most dogs. He's like a cat. Got nine lives, I guess," said the Captain.

I was comforted by the knowledge that at least Pam knew that there was, or could have been, a dog. I emptied my wine glass and filled it again.

"Why don't you two join us for the rest of the trip to Alaska?" Captain Locke suggested. "Plenty of space. You'd be my personal guests."

"Oh, would I love to!" Pamela practically shouted. "Could we, dear?"

"Out of the question," I replied. "Besides, this old tub may look beautiful after dark, but who's to say she can make the trip?"

Our Captain scowled and nearly choked on that. "Why, she's a vessel of the Canadian Pacific," he protested. "She has a double bottom and double bulkhead. She's virtually indestructible."

With that the subject seemed closed. I was finishing my dinner in relative calm, considering carefully the prospect of climbing down that rope ladder, when Pam excused herself. She wanted to use the ship's head. After she'd been gone for perhaps ten minutes, I began to wonder why she wasn't back at the table.

"Captain, my wife," I began ... "She's been gone unusually long."

"Have some more wine, Mr. Owens," he replied.

"I think I'll go look for her." I began to get to my feet.

"Mr. Owens, sit down," the Captain said sternly. He put his hand on my arm, almost forcing me back into my chair. "You see," he continued, "now that you're aboard, I must insist that the two of you join us for the rest of our cruise. It is a very special cruise. The passengers, you see, the crew ... we have all made this same cruise before. And now, we are all reliving past memories for one more time. This will be the last cruise of the Princess Sophia."

"That explains to me, Captain, why there is no laughter," I replied. "This is a sentimental cruise. People must have memories to relive."

"Exactly," said the Captain. "In that sense, you and Mrs. Owens do not belong. However, we will just have to make the best of it."

"I don't think you understood me earlier, Captain Locke. We're not going anywhere on this ship. Now, I am going to find Mrs. Owens," I said firmly.

"The fact is that you will not see your wife again until we are underway in the morning," barked the Captain. "You may as well enjoy your wine because your wife, while quite safe, is unable to join you and you will not find her until I decide that the time is right."

"But this is piracy!" I yelled at him. "You can't shanghai us right here in Canadian waters!"

"Wrong, Owens. You and each of the 343 other persons aboard are subject to my every command. You will do what I say to do and you will leave the ship when and if I say you may leave," the Captain stated with an air of finality.

I decided to play along with Long John Silver and see if I couldn't outsmart him. "All right, Captain Locke," I said soothingly, "it appears that we are to be your guests for the cruise. I'd like to go to my quarters, if I may."

"Certainly," he replied. "I'll show you to your cabin myself, Owens. Come with me."

I followed him out of the dining room and along a companionway. He stopped and held open a door. I went through the door and down about 20 steps to another door below. I opened it. Another companionway. We passed several doors, behind any one of which Pamela could be waiting. Finally, Captain Locke opened another door and motioned me to enter. I started to go inside, but it was pitch black in there. It was then that I felt the bottom of Lockes's shoe on my rear, catapulting me head-long into the inky blackness. I landed on my face, sprawled on the floor. I heard the door shut and bolt lock. Silence followed.

"Now, I've done it," I thought. "I should have jumped him while I had the chance."

I picked myself up, gently. I felt around me. First one wall, then another. Then a bunk, a chair, a desk. I was in a cubical, perhaps six feet wide and eight feet long. The door through which I had entered, or rather been pushed, was the only door, and it was tightly locked.

I climbed on the bunk to contemplate my fate and Pamela's. How were we going to get out of this? "That man will have a lot of explaining to do when we get him off this ship and ashore, but meanwhile we seem to be at his mercy. What about this old tub, Princess Sophia, and all those passengers? None of them seemed very friendly. What if they are on a nostalgic cruise? That doesn't mean that they can't be civil to people. There has to be a way to get out of this cabin," I concluded.

I decided to try a trick that I learned once from a little old lady. I got up and felt my way to the desk. I fumbled for the drawer and opened it. I found what I assumed to be a sheet of writing paper. After a few walks around the drawer with my fingers, I found a pencil. "Just what I need, a thin pencil. Bless old Captain Quig's heart!" I said to myself.

Hand-over-hand I felt my way to the door. I bent down and felt under the door. There was a crack all right. I put the sheet of paper on the cabin floor and pushed it through the crack directly below the door knob. I felt below the knob for the keyhole. I pushed the pencil through the hole, eraser-end first. "Clang!" It had worked. The key had fallen on the floor.

"Now, if it only landed on my paper, and if I can only get it through the crack under the door," I thought.

"Patter, patter, patter," I heard from the companionway.

"What in heaven's name is that noise?" I asked myself.

"Patter, patter, patter. Scratch, scratch, scratch."

Confound you, Fido! If you grab that key and run off with it I WILL PERSONALLY WRING YOUR NECK NINE TIMES FOR EVERY ONE OF YOUR NINE LIVES.

I pulled my paper in quickly. I felt it carefully. There was no key. Perhaps it missed the paper. Perhaps the crack under the door was too small. Perhaps the dog had it.

"Scratch, scratch, scratch."

"Oh, go away, you mutt!" I suggested. "Haven't I got enough trouble?"

There was the sound of something metal sliding on the floor. "Puff ... slide ... puff ... sniff ... sniff."

"Fido's pushing the key with his nose!" I thought. "Here, Fido! Good, Fido!" I yelled through the door. "Push the key here - right here!" I tapped on the bottom of the door.

"Scratch, scratch, scratch."

"No, no. I don't want you in here. I want that key! The key. The key."

I heard footsteps coming down the companionway. They grew louder and stopped at the door.

"Triffles, what are you up to?" It was Captain Locke's voice. "Come along, you silly dog."

"Swish," something came sliding under the door. "Patter, patter, patter," the dog's feet followed the Captain's, out of hearing.

I felt the floor near the door and worked my way into the room with the flat of my hands on the floor, making half circles. I hit something.

I picked it up. It was the key. The dog must have kicked it with his back paw as he was leaving the door.

I put the key in the door and turned it. I opened the door a crack and listened. Everything was quiet. I put the key in my pocket and slid quietly out into the companionway. "So far, so good," I thought.

"Now, how am I going to find Pamela?" I pondered. I stopped and listened at several doors, but heard nothing.

"I can go up and down these corridors all night and never find her. I need a plan," I counseled myself. I was trying to devise just such a plan when I heard Rover coming toward me.

"Patter, patter, patter," his paws sounded. "Trouble, or whatever your name is, you've got to help me find Pamela," I plied.

"Sniff, sniff, sniff."

"If only I had something of hers to show you, I mean for you to sniff," I said.

I fumbled through my pockets. Some scraps of paper and a wadded-up kleenex. Then I felt it ... Pam's lipstick which she had given me earlier to keep for her.

"Here, smell this," I said as I held out the tube.

"Sniff, sniff, sniff."

"Now take me to her. Where is she?" I questioned.

"Sniff, sniff, sniff."

"The Captain, or one of his men, may come along and find me at any minute, and here I stand playing with a dumb dog," I thought to myself. I put the lipstick back in my pocket. The dog started down the companionway. I followed. "After all," I mused, "what else do I have to do?"

After following Fido for what seemed to be the length of a football field, the dog stopped suddenly and began sniffing under one of the doors.

"Pam, are you in there?" I whispered.

"Harvey! Get me out of here," I heard Pamela's voice through the door.

I took the key from my pocket, unlocked the door, and entered the darkened room.

"It's so dark in here, dear. I couldn't find a match to light the oil lamp," said Pamela.

"No matter," I croaked. "Now follow me and let's get out of here."

"That won't be possible just now," the voice of Captain Locke boomed into the room.

I whirled instantly, sticking my leg into the doorway to prevent him from closing the door and, at the same time, reaching out to grab our invisible intruder. I caught him by what I believed to be the sleeve of his jacket. I whirled again with his sleeve and arm in my grasp. The force sent Locke catapulting into the room as his coat sleeve button ripped off in my hand. There was a thud which I judged to be Locke's head hitting the far wall. There was a muffled moan and nothing more.

The boat suddenly echoed with the sound of the engines turning over.

"Pam, we've got to get off this boat fast or we'll be in a lot of trouble," I said. "Grab my hand and follow me."

I broke into a trot down the companionway, in hopes of finding the stairs to the main deck before it was too late.

"How did you ever find me," Pamela asked.

"I didn't find you, my dear. It was that little dog," I replied.

"You mean the one you were with under the table last night?"

"The same. The one you didn't think existed," I explained.

"Well, you'll have to admit that crawling around under the table, making women scream is not usual behavior in the best of company," Pam conferred.

"Next time I'll be more careful of Lady Uptight's ankles," I suggested.

We found the stairs and ascended quickly. Opening the door at the top, we stepped easily onto the deck and hurried to the side where we had come aboard. It was still dark. The fog was quite thick.

"We're in luck! The ladder is still here," I said. "Let me go first."

All the way down I kept wondering if the Captain would regain consciousness and come after us or if the ship would weigh anchor.

As we reached the bottom, I heard the crew stirring. There was our dinghy still tied to the ladder. We climbed in quickly. I shoved us away and began to row quietly but rapidly into the fog.

As the ship began to be shrouded in the fog, I knew that we could no longer be seen easily. My heart almost came down out of my throat.

Suddenly the outline of the Sea Bounty appeared. We climbed aboard, raised the dinghy and prepared to get under way in case anyone came after us.

But there was no need to start our engines because we could tell that the Princess Sophia was leaving. As we stood on our deck, peering into the fog but seeing nothing we could hear her engines as the propellers began turning and finally just the low pitched drone as it grew weaker and weaker. I could scarcely speak.

"Just a minute, dear," Pamela called as she disappeared into the master state room. I want to show you something in this book I picked up at a book store in Campbell River," Pamela said, as she handed me a large volume.

"From the weight of this, I'd say you got your money's worth."

Then I looked to where she had opened it and read with disbelieving eyes. It was a book of ship disasters and contained a reproduction of a newspaper clipping:

"Pamela, this picture - it's the very ship we were aboard," I said. "And, Locke ... why you heard him tell us about his ship and the passengers. Then there was that little dog, the cocker spaniel with nine lives. We've got to tell someone about all this right away."

"Do you want to get us locked up?" Pamela rebutted. "They'll say we dreamed it or worse. The truth is that we cannot tell anyone. Perhaps, we simply had one too many martinis last night!"

"I suppose you're right," I replied as I reached in my pocket. There it was. The button from the Captain's jacket. I held it out toward Pam. "There's our proof."

"What's this?" she replied as she examined the brass button. "An old brass button from a jacket? You pick up and save the strangest things. Where did you get this?"

"I accidentally tore it from Captain Locke's jacket when we were wrestling last night," I said.

"Well, put it in a box and save it if you like. But, that's no proof of anything. Really, an old button. Next thing you'll be saving old wads of paper and your toe nail trimmings. As for me, I intend to pretend that last night never occurred," Pamela concluded.

"All right, then," I said. "But I'm afraid I'll get a strange feeling whenever I hear a ship's engines in the night or in the fog. What if the Sophia's still out there? She must be a ghost ship."

"I don't like fog anyway," Pamela interrupted. "As far as I'm concerned, we can stay out of the fog in the future. Speaking of fog, it's lifting. Why don't we get underway? As I was saying about the fog ..."

"A ghost ship," I thought to myself. "Locke said that this was to be their last cruise and that they were due at Juneau on October 24th - the very day of that disaster, almost 60 years ago. Must that old man go through that tragedy over and over again? Is that, perhaps, his punishment? Why wouldn't he let the passengers leave the ship in safety? Why didn't he want us to leave? Did he expect us to go down with the ship?"

"Anyone who goes around cruising in the fog is bound to get into trouble. Now take that time we almost went on the rocks trying to cross in the fog from Isabella Light ..." Pamela was saying.

"What if there are other ghost ships out there?" I was thinking. "Why don't we see them? Maybe ...." I noticed a ripple on the water. "Ripples," I thought, "now they seem safe enough to contemplate."

Editor's Note: The facts related in this story regarding the disaster of the Princess Sophia are true, including Captain Locke's refusal to allow the passengers to leave the ship and that a dog was the sole surivivor. Facts taken from The Disaster Log of Ships by Jim Gibbs, 1971: Frayn Printing Company, Seattle, Washington.

Since the story The Last Cruise was written, Betty O'Keefe and Ian Macdonald, along with Heritage Press in Vancouver, British Columbia have published a book titled The Final Voyage of the Princess Sophia. It is distributed by FineEdge Publications. To place an order, see Northwest Boat Travel's Shopping Mall.