Lingerie For Felons (34 page)

Great, just what we need. Scared kids with guns.

For some reason, everything about this whole escapade was starting to remind me of those old war films. You know,
Bridge Over The River Whatever
. Or
Escape from
Insert-Name-of-German-War-Camp
. I think it was because the whole thing was kind of slapstick, and I always thought those movies had that kind of quality to them. Maybe it was the wooden acting or the dodgy sets or whatever. Anyway, if it had been one of those films, this is the bit where the obligatory dumb-woman-along-for-the-ride would have started blabbering hysterically. You know, just after she twisted her ankle and before she kissed the hero. And someone would have slapped her. You know, because that's what you do to stupid women. But I guess this isn't the time for a feminist diatribe.

Anyway, because we weren't in a war movie and he wasn't a stupid woman, I didn't slap the blabbering cameraman — even though my nerves were so frayed that I really, really wanted to. I just silenced him with a look, a finger to my lips, and a whispered ‘shhh, they can't understand a word you're saying.' As if to reinforce my point, the sailors waved their guns threateningly, and he went pale and looked like he was about to faint. But he shut up. Thankfully. The sailors looked at me gratefully and I saw them exchange a look, the significance of which I didn't fully get until we were on board and they took us to their Captain.

All five of us were lined up in front of the Captain like naughty school-children sent to the headmaster's office. And all I could think was
oh no, not the underwear again.
You know what's weird? How life comes full circle. 'Cause there we were, at the end of my journey, and what am I wearing under all this cold-weather stuff? A thong. Okay, so not red lace, but a thong nevertheless. Something about seeing Wayne again had really brought out the woman in me, and I'd traded in my grandma underwear for some girly pieces. Which totally does not explain why the hell I brought them to the Southern Ocean.

Standing there, I had the strangest feeling that the five of us had simply pulled some harmless little prank, like spray-painting the principal's car back in Junior High, and we'd be rapped across the knuckles and sent back to our classes any time soon.

The Captain had clearly been waiting for us, but maybe we'd taken a little longer than he'd expected to arrive, because as we were ushered in, I noticed him hastily stuffing a book back into his drawer. I wondered idly what he had been reading. He was such a stern, imposing, hard-faced, straight-backed guy, but I could have sworn the book had a pink cover. Probably something about tea and kimonos, I figured.

As we stood there in front of him, he took a few moments to look us over silently, drumming his fingers against his beautiful timber desk. Taking his time. Savoring the moment. Like the SS Commander in a war movie.

‘So, I understand you are the ringleader of this little outfit,' the Captain purred in perfect Oxford English, looking directly at me.

Aha, so that was what that look between the two sailors had been all about. God, this is the second time I've been called the ringleader. Maybe I really am leadership material. Maybe I should run for Congress.

Anyway, I started to protest when two things happened.

Firstly, all of the guys from the operation started blabbering in unison about how there really were no leaders, and one activist was as good as the others. Cowards.

The other thing was that the Captain started to laugh, an arrogant, sneering sound.

‘Oh, this is typical,' he scoffed. ‘Only Americans would put a woman in charge of something like this. No wonder it has been such a…' He paused elegantly and then articulated each syllable of his next word beautifully, ‘dis-as-ter'.

All my protests died on my lips. ‘In the flesh,' I replied.

‘Humph,' he humphed. He curled his lip, and seemed kind of annoyed that I wasn't cowering in my boots. Actually, I guess he just wasn't a good read of non-Japanese faces, because I really was.

‘Well,' he began again. ‘It seems that as you have violated the integrity of my ship, I will need to keep you here until I get you all safely back to harbor. Of course,' he smiled toothily and really did look kind of like the villain in a bad film now, ‘I will need to confiscate your camera and technical equipment. To ensure there is no disruption to the rest of the crew.'

I suddenly remembered that I was sure I'd read somewhere that captains of boats have all sorts of weird and wonderful rights and powers. Like I'm pretty sure they can marry people. Maybe they can actually execute people who get in their way too. He kind of looked like he wanted to. I was about to protest loudly at the confiscation of equipment when he started speaking again.

‘Oh, but I am sorry.' He sounded really kind of posh now. Where the hell did this guy go to school? Eton? ‘Forgive me, I have been a little hasty. I have not introduced myself. My name is Captain Hirohito Ichigawa.' He bowed a little. ‘But you may simply call me Captain.'

It's really kind of weird how, faced with someone being polite, I find it hard to be rude in return. Even when they have ordered their weapon-wielding henchmen to drag you and your comrades bodily across the open ocean like a tin of sardines, insulted your gender — and your country, come to think of it — and announced that they are going to steal thousands of dollars worth of technical equipment. All so they can butcher the world's largest and most amazing mammals free from the intervention of a bunch of do-gooders.

Even then I find it hard to be rude in return.

Even when I should be.

It's like some kind of disability. For example, I've had shop assistants be downright unhelpful — you know the kind, standing there filing their nails and chatting to their rude shop assistant pals while you're desperately looking for help to find something. And as long as they use a really nice, polite voice as they say ‘oh I am sorry, I don't think we have your size in stock' — without even looking up from their nails or checking any kind of computerized inventory system — I always feel obliged to mumble a polite ‘oh, okay then, sorry for interrupting' before loping off cursing them and my own pathetic nature.

So, now, because the Captain — he was already
El Capitan
in my head — was using this polite voice and introducing himself, I didn't feel I could tell him to get lost with his whale-butchering mates and get his greasy little blubber-bloodied hands off our things. So, instead, I started to introduce myself too. I consoled myself by thinking that maybe this was the path to opening up a useful dialogue.

‘Save your breath, Miss,'
El Capitan
hissed. Oh boy, can I misread a situation. ‘I am not interested in the names of criminals, trespassers and saboteurs. I simply brought you here to tell you that you will be kept upstairs on deck, restrained, until we can get you to the nearest port. We will not be returning you to your friends to wreak more havoc on our commercial business.' He drew in a deep breath and continued. ‘You will be provided with the same rations as the crew, but do not expect silver service. I guarantee you will not be mistreated while I am in command, but understand this: you are detainees here.'

I was furious. Tied up? My urgent need to pee intensified.

I tried to channel Emmy. She was never polite to shop assistants, or anyone else, come to think of it, regardless of how sweetly they talked to her. And her take-no-prisoners approach seemed to yield great results. They fawned over her like she was Madonna. And they didn't even know who she really was. In the few seconds before I spoke, I was mentally rehearsing what I was going to say, and how I was going to say it. Something like ‘now look here you little megalomaniac…'

But before I could kick off, he spoke again.

‘Oh,' he intoned in his really quite beautiful voice. ‘I forgot to mention. You, Miss.' He motioned towards me. ‘You may use the facilities in my private quarters when you require the bathroom. The rest of you…' His gaze swept over the four others with whom I had been taken. ‘You can avail yourselves of the open ocean, like the animals you are.'

Now, if we really were in that war movie I kept visualizing, this would be the bit where I, the feisty heroine, would have spat in his snide little face and refused his ungracious offer, preferring to side with my men — my God, in my mind I already was the leader of this whole thing — but in reality the thought of peeing in uncomfortable circumstances had been bad enough on board the
Rainbow Serpent
, with friendly co-travellers willing to look the other way. The thought of doing so on-board a foreign ship, where men with weapons would probably be watching, was more than I could bear.

So instead I blabbed a pathetically grateful ‘thank you, thank you' before bolting over to the door
El Capitan
indicated with a careless wave of his fingers. I swear I peed for at least two minutes straight before all the fear, anxiety and hysteria pee was out. When I emerged I was hustled up to the deck with the others. But not before I warned
El Capitan
:

‘Er, sometimes I need to use the bathroom quite often when I'm nervous, so…'

He turned pink and cast his face down, but inclined his head in assent. ‘Simply advise the guard when you require the facility and he will escort you down here. A lady…' he looked me up and down as though clearly unconvinced that the label should be applied to me, ‘must not be denied her ablution.'

And that was it. We were dismissed.

The crew hustled us up onto deck, where we were bound and directed to where we could sit on the floor. We were under some shelter, and had some rush mats to sit on, although it was all pretty basic. The four guys were bound back-to-back with some shipping rope, and I had my hands tied behind my back slightly away from the others. The guys each had two sailors to watch them, and I had one guy to watch me. Typical. Why am I never considered a serious threat? I suppose, if I'm honest, I had bigger things to worry about right then. But in retrospect, it's annoying, you know.

Anyway, as it turned out, it was quite useful. At first, the other crewmembers and I had been calling out a frantic conversation to each other, trying to offer some solace and support and, most of all, to work out what the hell was happening, and what was going to happen. Of course, none of us had a clue. We guessed that the rest of the crew back on-board the
Rainbow Serpent
had seen us being taken prisoner. We assumed that they had re-established the connection with
CNN
, and had also radioed the relevant authorities for help. But who the hell were the relevant authorities?

None of us really had any sense of a precedent for this situation. Would the US Government try to intervene, to secure our release? Did the UN have any kind of role in this situation? Would anyone even be interested in helping, or would they just write us off as a bunch of typical amateurs who'd done the wrong thing in the first place and deserved to get a bit of a fright? Would the TV coverage back home evoke any public outcry? Oh no, in which case, had I breached the conditions of my suspended sentence?

Anyway, we were all blabbering like the crazy, useless, amateur fools we really were, and I could tell the guards were getting kind of freaked out by it. We started throwing ideas back and forth about how we might try to re-open negotiations with the Captain. I really didn't like our chances. The man was made of stone. He was like a Japanese Clint Eastwood. Well, you know, except I'm not sure if Clint reads pink books.

The more we talked, the more freaked out the guards looked. I'm not sure whether or not they'd been told to keep us quiet, but the general level of noise and hysteria bubbling up from us didn't seem like something they were going to tolerate for too long. Eventually, the oldest of the sailors yelled out the only two words of English I heard him speak for the whole three days we were on board.

‘Shuuut uuup!'

And we did.

Or at least, we only spoke infrequently and quietly when we did. And this seemed to keep the guards reasonably happy.

Don't get me wrong, it was no picnic. It was really uncomfortable sitting tied up most of the time, although the Captain had ordered the sailors to release us for five minutes or so hourly to make our ‘ablutions' and stretch our legs. And they untied us for sleep — which we did on these god-awful, uncomfortable mats that were produced and laid on the deck for the three nights we were on board — and for meals, which were uninteresting but sustaining. Nothing like the Japanese Emmy used to bring over.

And I could tell the sailors really didn't like us.

Some of them regarded us with this cool disdain, others with open animosity. And, look, I tried to get it from their perspective. We had disrupted the hunt. They were sitting around twiddling their thumbs. And we were kind of…you know…the enemy. It was a horrible feeling. The dislike pulsing from the sailors. The disconnection from time and place. The lack of information about what was going on. The fear about what was going to happen next. I would sit there and watch the
Rainbow Serpent
, off in the distance, and have such a strong longing to be back on board I felt like my heart was breaking.

The only piece of succour I had was that my seasickness seemed to have completely disappeared. I was so relieved. The minute we'd been taken prisoner, my thoughts had turned to how the hell I was going to cope once my suppositories wore off. I had visions of Japanese sailors holding back my hair while I barfed endlessly over the side of their ship.

Anyway, as I started to say before, I only had one guy watching me and we were kind of out of earshot of the others. As I started surreptitiously checking him out, I realized my captor reminded me of someone. You know how you get a glimpse of a similarity and you can't quite get hold of who someone reminds you of, but it drives you insane?