Sheila M. Cronin
Alaska with James A. Michener
In the spring of 1988, James A. Michener’s new novel Alaska became an instant New York Times bestseller. Michener, an American literary treasure, was among the most acclaimed authors alive. Millions of readers worldwide were enthralled by his sweeping historical style, in-depth research and epic family sagas. His many accolades included the Medal of Freedom which he received in 1977. Alaska constituted his thirty-fifth book and eighteenth novel.
My employer, Sitmar Cruises, an Italian cruise line that operated out of Los Angeles, built that summer’s marketing promotion around the 868-page tome. Members of Circolo del Comandante, the line’s repeat passenger club, who sailed to Alaska that season aboard any of the company’s three ships, would find a complimentary copy in their staterooms. Seven thousand books were ordered.
The Micheners were invited to take the first July sailing aboard Fairsky which would carry the season’s largest complement of Circolo passengers. The day we received confirmation of their acceptance, a meeting of the marketing and operations departments was convened in our Century City corporate office to select an onboard escort. Because I managed club activities, I was chosen.
The day before leaving for Alaska, the director of reservations informed me that the cruise was sold out; hence, I would have to forgo the use of a stateroom and make do in the ship’s infirmary. My face must have registered dismay for he softened this blow by assuring me that I was about to have the experience of a lifetime.
From Los Angeles, I flew to Seattle. A second flight took me to Alaska. As the planes became smaller, my anticipation grew. The third flight, more like a puddle jumper, landed me in Ketchikan on an airstrip not much wider than a dirt road. Both the Micheners and I were joining the ship mid-cruise.
Sitmar’s stevedore contractor sent David, a gangly, redheaded young man, to meet and transport me—by ferry—to the Ingersoll Hotel. My first impression of Alaska was “Water, water everywhere!” Friendly, folksy people. Tons more trees than Southern California. Plenty of bearded men in lumberjack attire. No gaudy Sunset Boulevard-like billboards. Saloons on every corner.
I longed to explore the town, but I had my orders. The publisher had sent us a galley copy of Alaska that my boss expected me to devour before the author boarded ship. By breakfast the next morning, I’d skimmed the first two hundred pages.
The following day began cool and overcast. After breakfast the stevedore company sent a driver to deposit me at the pier. Tenders were already ferrying Fairsky’s passengers ashore from the center of the waterway where she was anchored and I boarded the next one heading back to the ship.
Fairsky loomed above me glistening white with two black-and-tan colored stacks, eleven decks high, 780 feet in length from sleek bow to stern. I’d discovered on my previous cruise that the steam turbine machinery eliminated virtually any vibration, promising nights of cradle-like sleep. Now, however, the ship bustled with mid-morning activity.
The chief cabin steward greeted me and kindly instructed me that my first duty was to pay a courtesy call on the captain. I appreciated being told the protocol, for it suddenly dawned on me that—I hadn’t received one iota of instruction on exactly what an escort does.
There was no time to dawdle for as one steward whisked my bags down to the infirmary, another led me to the gold elevator. I barely had time to take in the dazzling lobby décor, exquisite flower arrangements and lush blue carpet. All around me, passengers who were in the middle of their cruise continued to disembark for a day in Ketchikan. Very few of them knew that Michener was expected at noon; we—"Sitmar-style”—had kept that wonderful news a secret.
I took a fortifying breath before entering the captain’s office. Captain Potenzoni, a wily dynamo in daytime white uniform, rose from behind his oak wood desk to greet me. Finding myself looking down at him, I quickly lowered my 5’- 10” frame onto a chair.
His eyes sparkled with mischief and I soon learned why.
Just after my arrival, his personal steward knocked and announced that Captain diStefano, of Sitmar’s Fairsea, also in Ketchikan that day, and he plus ten of his crew wished to board. The captain pounded his desk and laughed out loud.
“See? He’s coming to tell me why he should have the Autor aboard his ship. Hah! The Autor belongs here!” Minutes later, Captain diStefano and crew filed into the room. Conversation between the two masters ensued amid many Italian jokes and gestures. In the end, there was no doubt which captain prevailed.
Next on my agenda was a call on the purser, Mr. Donato. He warmly welcomed me. He was about my height with a face and manner reminiscent of one of my favorite actors, Peter Ustinov. His muscular build stretched his navy blue uniform to its limits. From the get-go, he invited me to call him Gianni or simply “Jonny.” We proceeded to the Micheners’ stateroom on the Lido deck for a final walk-through.
So far, so good. The ship’s personnel, whether intentionally or not, were guiding me through each step. On our way out of the immaculate suite, my eyes swept the room in search of something—anything—that would earn me credibility. I noticed that the flowers had wilted and asked him to have them replaced. The purser thanked me profusely and our bond was forged.
My third stop was the infirmary where I found myself in a clinic-like room with a door that had no lock. True, I had my own bathroom featuring a monstrous porcelain tub on legs, but it, too, was lock-deprived! I surveyed the situation tight-lipped but didn’t dally; the Micheners were due any minute. So, after keeping one eye on the door while changing into uniform, I affixed my nametag then sped up several decks to the embarkation area.
Up and down the Promenade deck, the crew’s walkie-talkies bleeped with moment-to-moment flashes of the Michener party’s progress: at the airport, on a launch, now fifty feet away requesting to come aboard. As word rapidly spread, about sixty camera carrying passenger-fans flocked to the lobby and spilled out on to deck. I, too, caught a glimpse of his arrival, and observed that he could climb stairs and walk on his own. Relieved, I ducked back inside, then stationed myself next to the purser near the main stairwell.
James A. Michener, using a cane, strode purposefully through the crowd, ignored cameras, saw me in my uniform and stepped forward. First, he read my nametag. Then he shifted his cane to his left hand, stuck out his right hand and uttered his first words to me: “Thank you, Sitmar Cruises, for inviting my wife and me aboard this beautiful ship.”
He towered over me. I looked up into one of the kindest faces I have ever seen. Trim at eighty-one, a sporty ball cap covered his white hair while his blue eyes smiled behind oversized glasses. His handshake was dry, firm. He turned to introduce his wife, Mari. Much shorter than her husband, with curly black hair, her Japanese-Hawaiian features beamed. He was dressed casually like other passengers. Mari, more tailored.
Introductions were made all around including distinguished travel-writer and author, Frank Riley and his wife, Elfriede, friends who had accompanied them. When we asked if our guests would rather see their stateroom first or have lunch, they unanimously chose the latter.
At this point, Jonny regretfully excused himself. His younger brother, Tony Donato, deputy purser on Fairsea, had boarded with Captain diStefano earlier and they had planned a luncheon reunion.
Mari immediately said, “Of course, don’t miss lunch with your brother on our account. But why not invite him to join us? We’d love to meet him.”
Perhaps Mari’s quick-thinking solution set the tone from that moment forward. The purser’s warm reunion with his brother in the presence of our celebrity guests lent an intimacy to our initial gathering that put us all at ease. And what guarantees a superb meal on board a cruise ship better than having not one but two pursers at the table?
Conversation proved to be remarkably smooth, both Micheners being inveterate interviewers. Rather than basking in the limelight, they, particularly Mari, drew out each of us about our families, hometowns, and careers. Affectionately, they called each other “Cookie” as well as deferred to one another.
Jonny seized the opportunity to learn their preferred dining arrangements. Mari chose to eat breakfast and lunch outdoors or al fresco. She insisted we focus our attention on her husband. He stated he would be eating every meal in the dining room, which informed me where I would be at mealtime for the rest of the sailing.
That afternoon they settled in while I met with various departments about land tours, arrangements for the Q & A session and matters concerning the all-important Circolo party for repeat passengers that would take place later that evening. When the Micheners asked how they should get in touch with me, I couldn’t avoid being mysterious since my infirmary quarters lacked a telephone. I told them to call Jonny and he would get in touch with me. Better yet, I promised to “magically” appear in time to escort them to each event.
True to my word, at the appointed time I arrived at their stateroom to accompany the Micheners and their companions to the formal Circolo party in the showroom. The author wore a black tuxedo and red bowtie and Mari, a periwinkle gown and string of pearls. Both looked relaxed following their afternoon rest.
The Circolo party hosted by the captain was a festive members-only feature on every cruise. Typically, parties were held before first and second seating in one of the lounges.
However, because Michener and his wife were to be inducted into the club, only one party took place for all members. To accommodate the large number of people—over 700 of the 1200 passengers onboard—the party was held in the spacious Fairsky Showroom.
By the time we arrived at the entrance, a long line had already formed. I was about to cut in so Michener would not have to stand too long but he and Mari had already taken positions at the end of the line! He wanted no special treatment. I tactfully assured him that the guests of honor needed to get inside so all the members could be photographed with him. He nodded and gestured for me to lead the way.
After presenting them to the captain, I led the couple to a reserved table near the stage. Spontaneous, warm applause filled the room.
The Micheners beamed and waved before taking their seats. Moments later, the captain commandeered the stage to welcome everyone to the party. He then read a formal statement on behalf of the Commodore, head of the fleet, conferring honorary membership upon our illustrious guests. Next, he invited the couple up to the microphone. With cameras popping around the room, Captain Potenzoni presented them with the Circolo del Comandante, Italian for The Captain’s Circle, credentials: a white logbook and official certificate of membership.
Michener, who appeared moved by the ceremony, took the microphone and graciously acknowledged the honor and referred again to the ship’s beauty. His remarks generated a standing ovation.
The Micheners chatted, shook hands, and graciously posed for pictures with club members until the second seating dinner gong sounded. I then led them and their friends to the lovely Savoy dining room. The room swelled with busy bus boys, delicious smells, the clatter of trays and cutlery, the waft of perfumes. Men wore tuxes while the women glittered from their upswept hair to their shiny pumps.
Besides the four in the Michener party, one lucky handpicked couple—loyal Circolo members with the most accrued Sitmar voyages—were assigned to the Michener table. When available, the purser would also dine with them.
The Savoy, like dining rooms on all Sitmar ships, conveyed a cozy family atmosphere: tableside cooking, special off-the-menu dishes, expert though warm service by waiters and wine stewards and, of course, incomparable Italian cuisine. I placed myself at a nearby table to keep a discreet eye on things while giving them privacy.
After dinner I stopped by their table. Mr. Michener asked if I was going to see the film “Fatal Attraction” in the ship’s lower level cinema. Fairsky was underway. Aware that her gentle movement, after the day’s excitement, might lull me to sleep, I excused myself. I marveled at his energy all the way back to the infirmary. I later learned that he attended the movies every night.
After getting ready for bed, I retired but couldn’t sleep. I’d turned off the light, so why was the room not dark? A glance at the porthole gave me my answer. Alaska, land of the midnight sun! At eleven p.m., it looked more like late afternoon. Once I covered up the window, the ship’s cradle-like motion took over and I fell into a deep sleep.
The next morning I awoke and realized Michener must be nearing the dining room where I should already be!
I jumped into my clothes and ran to join him. Just as I feared, he sat alone at the table, though in deep conversation with a passenger at the next table. Sheepishly, I approached him from behind and attempted to take my seat without drawing attention, but he caught sight of me out of the corner of his eye. He stretched one long arm behind his back, grabbed my hand and said, “Here’s my friend.” He held my hand until I was seated and dismissed any hint of an apology, urging me instead to order breakfast. By now, my worry about being his escort had vanished. He was as comfortable to be with as a favorite uncle.
But a very sharp pair of eyes would keep us all from becoming complacent. Soon after breakfast I was summoned to the purser’s office for an urgent meeting with cruise director Janet Edwards. A vivacious, experienced professional whose looks and sunny laugh reminded me of Doris Day, she was the first woman in the industry to be hired as a cruise director. Janet had enthralled me on my maiden cruise with her repertoire of zany tricks and hilarious disguises.
That morning, however, she was all business, in uniform and in serious negotiations with Mari when I arrived. They were poring over the ship’s daily bulletin, a list of activities printed each evening and slipped under every stateroom door before breakfast.
Mari’s purpose was to educate us on the dignified presentation of a world-renowned author—beginning with the correct spelling of his name! She pointed out a half dozen embarrassing mistakes in the first issue and insisted on proofing all future bulletins before they were published, as well as party invitations, Q & A announcements—anything that concerned her husband. No detail would be too small or time consuming for her attention.
Secondly, his meals were not to be interrupted by requests for his autograph. An overzealous table captain had done just that the first night. As a matter of fact, I’d witnessed the unexpected breach of conduct from my table nearby and had immediately informed the Maitre d’ who assured me it would not happen again.
Finally, she informed us, tartly, that writers signed copies of their own books, not paper napkins, envelopes, grocery lists, travel brochures or, heaven forbid, copies of other writers’ books.
Both Janet and I appreciated Mari’s early intervention and her loving devotion to her husband. We promised to run interference on all autograph seekers. After the meeting, Mari took me aside and asked why I hadn’t dined with them the night before as “Jim” wanted me at their table. Flattered speechless, I immediately changed my seating.
Friday found us in the capital city of Juneau. After breakfast, the Micheners headed off to pre-arranged city tours and then onto dinner with friends. I wondered how I would spend my “day off” until the ship’s tour manager, Patty, surprised me with a gift pass for a seaplane flight over the glaciers.
Later, when I ducked into the plane’s snug cabin, I discovered that one of the two couples already aboard were the Circolo members who graced the Micheners’ table onboard. What a happy coincidence.
We took off in glorious sunshine and minutes later peered down on sparkling snow drifts blanketing mountaintops below as us, far as the eye could see, that no human foot had ever touched. The awesome sight reminded me of fresh snow scenes from my hometown of Chicago and also school geography lessons of places I’d dutifully memorized but never expected to see.
For the first time, I began to comprehend that this cruise was my adventure, too. I spent the afternoon souvenir shopping, then had dinner with those same passengers in a restaurant across from the ship. Typical of Alaskan weather, it rained steadily that night. The icy pellets against my porthole only enhanced a feeling of warmth and security aboard ship. I slept well.
I woke up Saturday in plenty of time to have breakfast with Mr. Michener. He had the same breakfast every morning: half a banana sliced over a bowl of bran flakes with skim milk.
His innate charm and ready sense of humor made all our conversations enjoyable. Part of the pleasure was listening to the melodious tone of his voice. That day I couldn’t resist commenting on it.
“Mr. Michener, it’s so easy to listen to you talk. You have a wonderful voice. You could be on the radio.”
“Oh,” he replied with a self-deprecative chuckle, “I love what I do. There isn’t anything I can imagine doing that I’d like better. Why, I’m the luckiest man alive. I get to travel, live in amazing places, meet wonderful people everywhere I go…and then I have the pleasure of writing books about them.
“Right now, on the top of my dresser at home, there are official invitations from nine different countries to come live there, be their guest and write a book about them. Nine countries, imagine that. Yes, I guess I’m the luckiest man on earth.”
Right after breakfast, I was handed a business card sent by someone on shore who wished to speak to me. I climbed down the gangway steps to where Mr. Steve Hites, owner and proprietor of Skagway Streetcar Tours, waited. He offered to do cartwheels for me to get the Micheners inside one of his vehicles. I assured him no athletics were necessary; they’d already been signed up for his tour. Then, when I rejoined them onboard, the Micheners surprised me and insisted I join them.
I picked them up at their stateroom. They invited me in while they gathered their things. Michener’s current work-in-progress called Caribbean sat on the coffee table. He caught me staring at the manuscript and said with a smile, “I’m always working on something.” I couldn’t help but smile to think he was in Alaska writing a book all about the Caribbean.
Steve Hites began our exclusive tour by posing us outside a large touring car for photographs he promised would soon be on display for all his future passengers to see. Young and affable, he was a proud Skagway resident who had found, purchased, and refurbished six authentic, oversized touring cars that dated back to the 1930s.
He drove off, elated as could be, Michener beside him in the front seat, and showed us Skagway’s colorful history, including a stop at a very old cemetery where Steve recited a folk poem during which he enacted all the characters. True to form, Michener kept up a steady battery of questions which Steve answered with relish. The hour or so tour ended in a street-front theatre on the town’s main thoroughfare to view a film about Alaska’s famous White Train.
Afterward, the Micheners returned to the ship to rest. I spent the afternoon visiting Sammi Baker, a colleague from work, and her friends at the popular Red Onion Saloon. Skagway, a genuine Klondike town surrounded by tree-covered mountains, won me over completely.
When I returned an hour before dinner, lively harmonica and guitar music could be heard pouring out of the Veranda Lounge at the ship’s rear. I slipped inside to discover Steve Hites on stage giving an impromptu concert of Gold Miner folk songs for the Micheners, now seated at a front table, and many other enthralled cruisers. Since dress on board that evening was casual, we enjoyed the rollicking music right up to the sound of the dinner gong when we bid Steve a fond farewell.
Jonny Donato, meanwhile, had pulled off a stellar behind-the-scenes coup. It became evident to us both that the Micheners were surprisingly hard people to pamper as neither of them asked for anything and both appreciated everything.
Still, as representatives of a luxury cruise line, we had to make an attempt. Jonny suggested we dazzle them with culinary surprises. It became my job to pump them for information, discreetly of course, about items they didn’t see on the menu. It was Jonny’s job to make those delicacies appear.
So, before setting out Friday on my seaplane tour, I dropped by his office to notify him that the Micheners, though completely satisfied with the fruit and sweets in their stateroom, both admitted to a fondness for mangoes. After I left, he telephoned the Port Agent in San Pedro who had a crate of them waiting in Skagway by the time we docked there the next day. When the Micheners entered their stateroom Saturday night, a silver bowl of fresh mangoes awaited them. Sunday morning, they voiced their pleasure at the amazing sight which only emboldened our efforts.
Sunday was the big day: the Q & A session while the ship was at sea, followed by cruising Glacier Bay in the afternoon. Mid-morning, I headed for the Fairsky Showroom to relax and enjoy the Q & A session because Janet Edwards, cruise director extraordinaire, and her capable staff were responsible for the logistics and success of this highly anticipated event. All I needed to do was show up.
Michener’s talk was entitled: “Problems of a Professional Writer.”
The showroom rapidly filled to standing room only. Unlike the Circolo Party, the Q & A session was open to all 1200 passengers. Janet, on stage dressed in a navy blazer and pleated white skirt, introduced Mr. Michener.
The curtains parted. Michener, in a canary yellow jacket, black slacks and tie, came forward, escorted by two staff members, and sat down at a table covered while the passengers applauded. A microphone on a short stand was angled so he could easily reach to adjust it. Mari was seated in the front row.
He began by again extolling the ship’s beauty and grandeur then mentioned it was his wife’s birthday which garnered more applause. I made a note but later found out that Janet had already alerted the purser about a cake.
From there, he opened the session up to questions. Janet carried a portable microphone so she could repeat the questions for everyone to hear.
A man near the front asked a question in these words: “Mr. Michener, what do you see in the future for America?” Michener shot back this startling reply: “I give the United States of American another seventy-five years.” The audience hushed as he went on to say he didn’t mean the country would disappear altogether. Rather, it would become like England or France or Spain, a lesser power. He pointed out that most countries did not survive past 200 years. The threat would come not from Europe or the Asia, he added, the threat would come from within. More hands went up.
He admitted he was “wonderfully in love with animals” when a question about dinosaurs came up in relation to his novel Centennial. He added that two of his best friends in life had been dogs he’d known. He assured the audience that the afternoon’s sighting of whales would be the highlight of the cruise.
He said in answer to a follow-up question that of all the characters in his books, the Old Bison in Centennial came closest to his own personality. Otherwise, he did not use metaphor or symbolism. As a Quaker, he shunned adornment such as layered meanings.
A passenger asked him a question with two parts. First, was it true he had a photographic memory? The other question about fiction writing in general was more complicated. Michener replied by saying he'd answer the second part first. This took several minutes. Then he said, "Now about your first question—" He paused. The pause went on and on and we, the staff, got a bit nervous. Then, Michener smiled and said, "Yes, it's true. I have a photographic memory." It brought the house down.
He stated unequivocally that he did all his own research and didn’t need to take notes. When a draft was ready, he then paid knowledgeable people to read the manuscript and “tear it apart” so he could make corrections before publication.
An inquiry about writer’s block drew his thoughtful consideration. “All of us,” he said, “have psychological problems while doing our jobs. We all have a bad spell now and then.” He continued by saying, “Writer’s block is a copout. It mustn’t be indulged.” He had learned to work around it by going to an easier part of the story or putting aside one project to work briefly on another. Bottom line, he concluded, “Old pros like me don’t surrender to it.”
Because the passengers had read about his personal life in a short bio delivered to their staterooms overnight, a question arose about his roots. Namely, how did he react when he learned he was adopted?
Michener decried the current trend of searching out one’s origins. At age nineteen, he said he had three bad days in college during which he realized he didn’t know his genetic makeup, religion or family ties—nor was he ever going to.
“We delude ourselves thinking we can solve all our problems by tracking down this information.” Except for inherited disease, for which he sympathized and acknowledged as an important reason to learn about one’s natural parents, he urged people in situations similar to his to get on with life.
He was asked how he got started in writing. He praised his public school education and the colleges and universities he attended on scholarships. Joining the Navy in WWII—even though his Quaker affiliation would have qualified him as a conscientious objector— “got me off dead center,” he noted.
His thoughts then turned to the mother who raised him. She took in abandoned children with no financial help from anyone. “After dinner every night she read to us from Dickens. I marveled at the rhythm of words.” Later, an aunt who lived in Detroit, a school teacher, won an entire set of Balzac in a contest. She had those books shipped to his mother “…and at age twelve, I went from Dickens to Balzac.” The audience chuckled with him.
To a question about current affairs, he said that glasnost excited him because he hoped for a greater rapprochement with Russia.
He always looked to the future. With that in mind, he concluded by urging all the parents in the room to have their children learn to type on a keyboard. Computers and email were just coming to market in 1988.
At the end of the session, Michener caught us off guard by announcing that he would arrange with the staff to hold a second Q & A that focused on Alaska. He urged the assembly to check their morning bulletins for details. While the passengers applauded with enthusiastic delight, I wondered how we could possibly squeeze it in, for back-to-back daily activities were already scheduled and he would be disembarking in two days.
Janet hurried over and patted my arm reassuringly. “Don’t worry. We’ll make it happen. We’ll move a few things around, that’s all, but, oh my, what a surprise!” I so admired Janet’s ability to handle the unforeseen smoothly. The fact that ships at sea were on their own and had to deal with situations as they came up or suffer the consequences was now abundantly clear to me.
Later that day, after dutifully informing the purser of my latest discovery—both Micheners liked Chinese food—I heard a loud speaker announcement requesting that the “Cronin Party” please report immediately to the bridge.
The Micheners and Rileys were already there with Captain Potenzoni and a few officers when I arrived. Michener sat in the captain’s chair, a pair of high-powered binoculars pressing against his eye glasses. Everyone’s attention was drawn to a pod of humpbacked whales who were putting on quite a show. My jaw dropped at their size and graceful dives as they appeared to be frolicking within sight of the ship. More appeared, also sea lions, too many to count.
Michener’s reaction became shouts of joy. “Look at ’em go! Boy, there’s a beauty! Did ya see that, everyone?” His cries bordered on rapture. He reminded me of an awed school boy. Mind you, Michener had lived in Alaska the last three years doing research for his novel, so he’d seen all the sights. He’d also just come from another Alaska cruise aboard a competitor’s ship where presumably he had cruised the Inside Passage the previous week.
Yet, his enthusiasm was contagious. He brought fresh eyes to his encounter with the humpbacks, and everyone from the captain who had witnessed this spectacle countless times to the most junior officer viewed them in a new way, too.
Captain Potenzoni then led us out on deck where he and our guests posed for photos against the stark, majestic scenery. The sudden boom of ice breaking off from the glaciers and crashing down into the water sharpened our awareness of our surroundings. The air smelled invigorating as the ship glided through the mirror-like waters. That afternoon and for most of the cruise, Alaska indulged us with sweater weather: sunny and breezy.
Across the bay, a brown blob moved among the trees and someone cried out, “Bear!” We all turned at once in time to see the hulk nimbly scamper up a hill out of sight. In that moment I took in the sheer magic of Alaska.
That night we dressed formally. The chef prepared a birthday cake for Mari which the table captain presented at the end of dinner with candles blazing, to her obvious delight. Many in the dining room joined in to sing her “Happy Birthday.” Fortunately, there were no more episodes of autograph seekers interrupting her husband’s meal.
We arrived at Sitka, the most Russian-like city in Alaska due to its history as a former Russian outpost, and passengers prepared to be tendered in for a short, half day visit.
The pilot who’d guided the ship through Glacier Bay disembarked. His departure, the purser informed me, meant that I would have a stateroom for the rest of the sailing. Not a moment too soon, since a crewman had walked into my unlocked quarters that morning as I was finishing getting dressed. No harm done.
Actually, the infirmary staff treated me most kindly. The nurses on board let me use their shower and gave me a pair of nylons when I ran out. One afternoon, the ship’s doctor made me a cup of espresso, then told me about his home town in Italy. One of the perks of working for a cruise line is that your colleagues in the office will recommend the right clothes to pack, which outfits to wear and when. One secretary used to visit the nearby Century City Mall to collect perfume samplers to tuck into her suitcase or give as pre-sailing gifts. Others could be counted on to lend formal wear, purses, accessories and costume jewelry. A cruise was a group effort that I now realized extended to my colleagues at sea.
The Micheners spent the morning on shore in Sitka. It was there that they lived in a log cabin for three years and from there they traveled all over the state while he wrote his book. I chose to tour the historic district with its Tlingit totem poles and charming Russian souvenir shops. Sitka seemed quieter, less touristy than our other stops and it featured wide views of the sea. The weather remained dry.
The Micheners, the Rileys and I were invited to sit at the captain’s table Monday night in the beautiful Regency Dining Room. We met beforehand in the Promenade Lounge, an intimate setting for cocktails off the silver elevator, then headed to the restaurant located midships which featured floor-to-ceiling windows, a high, tiered ceiling and gracious seating.
The author sat in the place of honor next to the captain, Mari on the captain’s other side. It being a semi-formal night, Michener wore a dark suit and a gold bowtie that matched his wife’s flowing, multi-colored kaftan. The captain seemed in rare form, chatting easily with Michener about places they’d both traveled, ordering around the waiters and keeping the table entertained. Poached Medallions of Alaska Salmon and Roast Prime Rib of Beef were featured entrees on the menu. A different wine was served with each course, however, everyone managed to save room for the truly delectable Strawberries Romanoff dessert.
Tuesday was a full day at sea. The second Q & A session was held that morning in the showroom to another capacity crowd. Though the title of the session was “Alaska,” it encompassed other topics as well. Again, Janet Edwards gave Michener a warm introduction. He wore a blue knit sweater and slacks and took his place at the table on stage. Behind him hung the flags of Alaska and the United States.
The session began with his announcement that he would be available to sign books after lunch in the Veranda Lounge. Many passengers had let Janet know that they had books they wanted signed and Michener was happy and eager to accommodate them.
Regarding the origins of his book on Alaska, he said it was his habit to consider a book for ten years or more before writing it. He began thinking about writing a book on Alaska back in the 1940s. Time went by. At age fifty, then again at sixty, he thought he was too old for such an undertaking. Nonetheless, he finally did start. “I spent a rigorous time in Alaska. I visited every corner of it at the age of eighty,” he boasted with a smile.
He described Alaska as having three distinct areas: a) the 10% “Canadian” part—which included all the areas we were cruising; b) the interior forest, 200 miles to the north; and c) the vast, frozen area beyond which comprised most of the state and which most people never saw. He had visited them all. He cited the town of Wainwright on the Arctic coast where he marveled that a supply ship stopped only once a year to deliver provisions. His favorite experience occurred during a flight over the glaciers on one of his many commutes. The weather was clear on that day, the views spectacular. His voice warmed as he recounted the memory. I felt fortunate to have had a similar experience during my glorious flight over Juneau.
He was asked if his books were used in school curriculums. “I get a lot of letters from parents,” Michener said. “Most often it’s about a child aged eleven or twelve. The parents want to know if they should let their child read The Bridges at Toki-Ri. I always write back to the child and say: ‘You could read the book now, but you will enjoy it more if you read it later.’”
Interspersed in his comments were passing references that suggested the scope of his service to country. Besides his years in the Navy, he had sat on the Advisory Council to NASA, he went to China with Nixon and he was a longstanding member of the international board that governed Radio Free Europe.
A question came up about the books that had been adapted to plays and screenplays. He said his only goal was to “get the book on the shelf.” As to sales, marketing or adaptations, he left those matters to his agent and publisher.
When asked which was his favorite of his books he replied, “It’s always the next one. I hope the next one will be perfect.” He went on to say he thought The Source was his best liked novel, Iberia would probably last the longest in print and The Bridges at Toko-Ri was his most read.
He admitted that he took great interest in current fiction and endorsed the works of several women authors: Toni Morrison, Anne Rice, and Joan Didion, among others.
The session took a philosophical turn near the end. When asked about his view of life—his vision of the future—he claimed to place great trust in genetic endowment. He could not think of a word other than “elite” to describe the people he meant: men and women of all backgrounds with rare intelligence or outstanding creative drive. He said he did not want to be governed by elites, but he wanted them available to find solutions to problems.
It was his considered opinion that people at the managerial level in most industries should retire at age fifty-five for two reasons. First, younger people, with energy and passion would take over, bringing with them their brightest and newest ideas. They would make mistakes but they would keep the enterprise moving forward. However, the retirees would not disappear, they’d stay on in advisory roles, to bird-dog projects and bring perspective, wisdom and ethics to the table. His closing comments seemed to give the audience, the majority of whom were middle aged, much to think about. They applauded long and loud after Janet returned to the stage to voice her thanks.
Afterward, I escorted him to the purser’s office. There, before lunch, a relaxed Michener signed copies of Alaska for the company executives including the board of directors, the company’s president, the Commodore, as well as for officials onboard: the captain, the purser and the executive staff. I opened each copy to the correct page and gave him the spelling for names and titles of the various recipients.
At the end he said, “And now, what about one for you?” and kindly signed a copy for me. That one I determined to read.
We were at lunch in the Savoy dining room when I was called to the phone. A member of Janet’s team in the Veranda Lounge was setting up for the book signing; however, things were getting way out of hand. Could I come immediately?
When I arrived, staff members stopped me at the door to apprise me of the situation. First, the lounge simply could not accommodate as many passengers as the showroom. Consequently, some people had to sit on the floor.
Second, dozens of people had been waiting since the end of the Q & A session, well over an hour. They did not want to lose their place to make room for latecomers.
Third, complaints, shouts, even name calling about the staff’s handling of the session had erupted. Angered passengers demanded to know why numbers hadn’t been given out at the door, as in first come, first served?
The staff described the mood in the lounge as ugly, and getting uglier by the minute. They begged me to do something.
The tension was palpable when I entered. A space had been cleared in the center of the room where a portable dais was set up. On it a chair and table awaited the author along with pens, water pitchers, drinking glasses, and a plate of cookies. Perfect.
I mounted the two steps, turned and faced the room. I raised my hands to request quiet. Outside, the weather had deteriorated. Sleet pelted the deck and glass doors. The ship was moving at a good clip.
It gave me an idea.
When the room finally stilled, I broadened my smile and said, “Ladies and gentlemen? Mr. Michener is on his way here. He wants you all to have his autograph. He told me he will stay here for as long as it takes.
“We are so fortunate to have this marvelous space with a full bar and snacks, whether you are waiting on a chair or on the carpet of this gorgeous ship. Thankfully you are not getting soaked as you would be if you were standing in a long line that stretched outdoors at a bookstore. The staff is doing all they can to make sure your afternoon is as comfortable as possible. All these things assure me that you will show Mr. Michener your courteous appreciation for his incredibly generous gift—of taking time to personally sign your books—by making room for each other before we begin. Will you please do that now?”
The tensions lifted. People applauded and proceeded to settle themselves down. I have no idea where those words or the authoritative tone I used to speak them came from, but on my way out of the lounge members of the staff hugged me.
True to his word, Mr. Michener signed books for two hours. He also conducted a short conversation with each person. Not another word of complaint was heard again. Instead, many pleasant memories were created that afternoon.
The purser, however, found a way to make the Micheners’ last night onboard unforgettable. Upon learning they both liked Chinese food, Mr. Donato, being resourceful and clever as his job demanded, asked the laundrymen who were Chinese to take over a portion of the ship’s kitchen that night to prepare dinner for our honored guests.
Therefore, when we sat down to the table, we were not handed menus as usual. Instead, the doors of the kitchen flew open and tray after tray of delicious, authentic Chinese dishes were delivered exclusively to our table by the proud Chinese laundrymen/chefs themselves who announced and explained each offering. I watched with pride as the staff of my beautiful and hospitable Fairsky came through.
Passengers at several nearby tables craned their necks at us with envy. The Micheners enjoyed every course. Leave it to Jonny Donato to end the cruise on a high note.
It came time for the Micheners and Rileys to disembark in Vancouver. They left shortly after breakfast. We didn’t plan any formal good bye, I merely escorted them for the last time to the gangway entrance. There, on behalf of Sitmar Cruises, I presented them with a piece of Alaskan art, a small wood sculpture of a sea lion that hopefully would remind them of our splendid day cruising Glacier Bay. They expressed their surprise with gratitude. A few more pictures were taken and hugs bestowed. Then they were gone.
Their departure gave me a couple of days at sea to visit my favorite spots on board—the pizzeria, the Piano Lounge and the serene Horizon Lounge facing the bow—before the actual cruise concluded in San Francisco. Prior to disembarking, the staff surprised me by handing me the only copies of the VHS tapes of the Q & A sessions. I was touched by their kindness, unaware until that moment that both events had been recorded. Not only that, but the photography department presented me with a stack of photos of the Micheners, Glacier Bay and the towns we visited. This gift touched me, for in all the excitement I’d barely had time to enjoy Alaska’s awesome scenery.
Just three weeks after my thrilling adventure aboard Fairsky, it was announced first in Britain, then in Los Angeles, that Princess Cruises and Sitmar Cruises had merged. As things turned out, my voyage to Alaska with James A. Michener became my first and last assignment as an official onboard escort.
That Christmas, Michener surprised me and sent me a signed copy of Caribbean which I considered to be his parting gift from the cruise. Looking back now, the prediction the director of reservations made at the outset proved to be undeniably true: I did have the experience of a lifetime. Indeed, I considered myself fortunate to have met the author, privileged to have met the man.
