I pick up my carnet for the bike and my $300 tax refund, pack a bag, and I’m off down to the ship, the 25,000 ton Italian passenger liner M.S. Achille Lauro.
While I’m out on deck, Dad is on the wharf making sure his mates load my bike carefully. Just when I’m getting worried they’ve forgotten it, the bike is loaded—last cargo on. Dad eventually goes home to an empty house, and I stay on deck, setting sail at 1:45 a.m. on Saturday morning.
I watch until the last light, and then, amid strong winds, choppy seas, and with a feeling of great relief, I retire to my bunk. I’m finally on my way and on a great adventure. Look out, Grannie; here I come!
The next day, we cross the international date line, so we have another Saturday. The weather is overcast, with cold winds and decreasing temperatures as we drop south. The seas are still choppy.
Only a few passengers boarded the ship in Wellington, but the whole ship knows about my proposed trip. I meet a few people, play chess, watch movies, and, four days in, give up shaving. On the fourth day at sea I see the first bit of sunshine, and then it’s back to a steady swell and rain.
It’s ten days in a straight line from Wellington to Punta Arenas in the Straits of Magellan. I share a cabin with three guys: a Norwegian, a pom, and a Kiwi, Bill, a missionary who has previously been to Bolivia and is now heading for northern Peru.
One night, while attempting chin-ups for exercise, the beam is wet, and I fall on my back on the deck. Luckily, the only thing I break is my watch.