When I boarded my flight from Manchester Airport in the north of England – ready to take up my first ever cruise contract as a musician based in the US – it felt like a stupid horrible mistake. I felt fear. Like choosing a fun fair ride, a nasty one that you haven’t the guts for, and strapping yourself in.
I had no desire to sing and play on a cruise anymore than I had a longing to be on a cruise. I’m from England. I like football (it’s not called soccer), drinking Guinness and, most importantly, I like playing my own songs not famous songs. I first picked up a guitar aged 14 to put words to music and 40 years later that hadn’t changed.
But I needed the money and I could do it. Just about. The audition said I could do it. The weddings, bars, cafes, church halls, arts centres, local radio broadcasts and local festivals said I could do it. The anxiety told me that until I got a microphone in my face I was going to feel as if I could not do it.
As the plane lurched off the runway and my home city shrank to a lillipot land my body broke into urgent regrets about the claustrophobia of living for months below decks on a cruise liner in a cramped cabin with a stranger. The potential horrors backed by a lifetime of repeat experiences flashed like neon in my brain.
Being bullied and ridiculed by workmates and fussy managers, acid reflux, that headache behind my left eye that constantly nagged, passengers wanted their favourite American hits that I’d never heard of. Most of all – not being able to turn back. Closing the door behind myself for three months and mingling with people I had nothing honest and heartfelt to say to. Nothing I truly wanted to talk about.
I arrived in San Francisco, having swapped planes in Atlanta, with no clue of my whereabouts and the vulnerability of being alone and trying to find a taxi rank. As a young guy with bounds of angry energy I’d backpacked all over Europe even spending a few months in New Zealand or a few months in the Himalayas. As a middle aged man I had nothing to prove, no great desire for adventure and longed for my bed in a safe hotel room skipping the unpleasant bits inbetween.
What followed was something of a nightmare and something of a reluctant adventure which changed me forever. One day I will finish the book – no really I will. Manchester to Mexico, maybe it needs a better title.
Yes it was exotic. The food was beyond expectation because I had no expectation. The music went well with the passengers as a whole and it was the passengers who proved themselves the most kind and friendly people that I met.
As I had imagined my workmates were mixed. Some were positive gossips and backstabbers, snotty brats and narrow minded music snobs would be one English description. Others were gems, a handful of social saviours from Ukraine, Russia, Romania, Canada and the UK. Relaxed and easy to get along with.
After a couple of months I started to go with the flow, drift with the Pacific Ocean and the bright skies, but I was always waiting for the contract to end so I could go home where I felt I belonged. Trouble was that we ended up in quarantine off the coast of California in the midst of an international pandemic just as it it broke out. That’s the story to write for the book – and the bit that makes it a safer story to write? It’s not about me.
Maybe one day I’ll publish it on Amazon once I get past my own self sabotaging doubts. Who knows!
Mike Kneafsey Guitar 