Chapter 10 - What a Normal Day Looked Like
People later asked survivors what life was like aboard Titanic before the disaster.
They expected some sign.
A strange feeling.
A warning.
A shadow.
The truth was far more ordinary.
We ate breakfast.
That is what I remember.
Eggs, bread, coffee.
People complained about small things.
A gentleman disliked the temperature of his toast.
A woman thought her cabin was too warm.
Someone had misplaced gloves.
A child was bored.
Life does not usually announce when it is approaching history.
On April 13, I decided to record an entire ordinary day.
Breakfast first.
Then the promenade.
The morning air was cold enough that several passengers wrapped themselves in heavy coats and blankets.
Deck chairs faced the water.
Some people read.
Others slept.
A woman dictated a letter to her secretary.
Two men discussed stocks.
No one discussed mortality.
After lunch, I spent time in the reading and writing room.
Sunlight entered through the windows.
Pens scratched across paper.
Letters were being written to people who expected to receive them after the ship arrived in New York.
That thought would later haunt me.
At the time I simply wrote my own letter to my sister Clara.
Dear Clara,
The ship is absurd.
I mean that affectionately.
There is a swimming pool.
At sea.
For reasons no one has adequately explained.
I told her about Samuel.
About Eleanor.
About Henry.
I almost mentioned Anna and Eva, then decided to save them for the article.
I ended:
New York in a few days. I’ll bring you something ridiculous from the gift shops if my money survives dinner.
Your brother,
Ethan.
I folded the letter.
Never posted it.
In the afternoon, I found Eleanor in the Verandah Café.
She had tea.
I had coffee.
“You drink too much of that,” she said.
“I’m American.”
“That is not a medical defense.”
We watched the sea.
Her husband had died seven years earlier.
She spoke of him without sadness dominating the conversation.
“I thought I would never travel again,” she told me.
“Why did you?”
“Because grief is a poor travel agent.”
I wrote that sentence down.
She frowned.
“You journalists are thieves.”
“Only of sentences.”
“Then at least spell my name correctly.”
Toward evening, I visited Henry.
He was playing cards with two other men.
They invited me to join.
I lost.
Repeatedly.
“You’re terrible,” Henry said.
“I’m gathering material.”
“For what?”
“A warning against gambling.”
At dinner, I ate too much.
Again.
The ship’s food had become an occupational hazard.
Afterward, music drifted through public rooms.
People dressed beautifully.
Conversation flowed.
I stood near the staircase watching them descend.
There was something theatrical about evening aboard Titanic.
During the day passengers belonged to themselves.
At night many seemed to dress for the ship.
Men became formal.
Women appeared in silk, lace, jewelry, long gloves.
Titanic provided the stage.
I wondered whether people behaved differently simply because their surroundings suggested they should.
Samuel passed me.
“You’re staring again.”
“Observing.”
“Of course.”
“How many miles have we traveled?”
“A great many.”
“You are an endless source of technical information.”
“I try.”
Before bed, I walked outside once more.
The wind had sharpened.
I remained only a few minutes.
Inside my cabin, I wrote:
The strange thing about Titanic is how quickly extraordinary comfort becomes ordinary.
Then:
Today I complained that my coffee cooled too quickly.
I stared at that sentence.
It seemed funny.
So I underlined it.
May you like
Of all the things I wrote during the voyage, that small complaint would later embarrass me most.
Because twenty-four hours later, I would have given anything for a cup of coffee that was merely cold.
