Miami Vice
It’s hard to fault being deported from the USA.
So polite, the police in America, even when they’re putting handcuffs on you.
“Please put your hands behind your back, sir.”
“Please accompany me to the vehicle , sir.”
A hand gently cupped my upper arm as we strolled down the gangway, arm in arm—sort of.
“Mind your head, sir,” came another polite reminder as a policeman guided me into the back of the car, his hand pressing lightly on my head.
There’s something peculiar about being complimented on my English accent while seated in handcuffs in the back of a police car—a nice touch.
It’s hard to fault being deported from the USA.
Here I was, once again bouncing along in the back of a car—though not towards the thrilling new life I’d envisioned a mere couple of weeks ago. Instead, I was on my way to deportation via the immigration centre in Miami. The ship had sailed hours ago, leaving me behind.
After my epiphany in the darkroom, I realised I had made a colossal mistake leaving my previous life. I was desperate to get off that ship, regardless of whether my passport was locked in a safe or not. I had bitten off more than I could chew with this one. While passengers indulged in three- or four-day benders, I was facing a six-month perpetual bender. Clearly, I wasn’t up to the task.
Did this expose a sensible side of me when it came to The Thirst? Perhaps.
I’d joined the ship to earn money and return home better off. At that rate of drinking, any earnings would have barely covered my bar bill.
After delivering my ultimatum, I made it clear this wasn’t the life for me. Refusing to fulfil my contract might seem extreme, but enduring even one more day was inconceivable, let alone six months.
Telegrams were sent from the ship, and exorbitantly expensive satellite calls were made to the UK office, trying to explain there had been a mutiny onboard, and I was demanding my terms of employment be revoked.
The ship’s purser held my passport, so a simple “Thanks for the experience, I’ll be on my way now” wasn’t an option.
To make things worse, I was broke. I swore blind I didn’t own a credit card—if I’d been made to pay for the airline ticket, I knew the bill would come later, and I wouldn’t have the money to cover it.
Finally, the company relented and arranged my flight. My passport would be released under the following conditions:
I had to leave the USA on the next available flight at 10 p.m. that night—fine by me. I couldn’t get away fast enough.
I would be kept at an immigration centre until departure—don’t knock it until you try it.
Any earnings from my time on the ship would go towards the airline ticket—good luck with that, since what I’d earned would barely cover my bar bill anyway.
Possessions were gathered, unpleasantries were exchanged with my understandably irritated shipmates, and I walked down the gangplank into a waiting police car, heading off towards the nearby deportation centre.
Upon arrival at around noon, I was placed in a holding cell with a mixed group of detainees. Some of them had arrived on a raft from Cuba that very morning—several of them were still damp.
I wasn’t a criminal. I wasn’t an illegal immigrant. Just incredibly stupid. Apparently, not an offence in America.
At around 8 p.m., I was escorted to the airport in handcuffs. As we moved through the terminal, I could sense people’s gazes lingering on me, perhaps trying to figure out which dangerous criminal they were about to share a plane with.
I could almost hear their whispered concerns: Oh my god, who have they put on the plane with us? He looks crazy!
Once through immigration, I needed a drink. I went straight to the nearest bar and ordered a large one on my non-existent credit card.
I HADaFEW turned into I HADaFEW more, but then, miraculously, common sense prevailed. I called it quits.
Finally, I was headed home.
I was so excited, I decided to surprise my girlfriend. She had no idea about the recent turn of events. A risky move, admittedly—if I’d found her in bed with someone else, that would have been a spectacular way to round off this disaster.
But she wasn’t that kind of girl.
She had moved to a new town after we gave up the lease on our old flat and was now living in a shared house. The plan was simple—wait for her after work and pounce from the shadows… Surprise!
So, that’s what I did.
Her face was a mixture of astonishment and what the fuck are you doing here?
Fair enough. It was a lot to take in.
We found a pub, and I recounted the nightmare in the darkroom, the epiphany that followed, and my desperate bid to escape the ship.
Then reality hit—where was I going to stay? One night crashing at her place was fine, but beyond that, I needed a plan.
I had anticipated the hardships of my return, but none of that mattered. I was just relieved to be off that ship. Me going back to our old town seemed the best option.
I found a bedsit and, out of sheer desperation, took a job as a chef. Weeks turned into months, and I ended up right back where I started—minus the stability of a settled home life.
Then one day, I ran into the waiter who had planted the “Wonderful life on the ocean wave” bollocks in my head.
I greeted him sarcastically. “Thanks for putting that running away to sea idea in my head.”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Remember that story you told me about working as a photographer on a cruise ship? I actually tried it.”
Curiously, he inquired: “How was it?”
“Terrible. I couldn’t wait to get off after less than two weeks.”
He looked genuinely surprised. “Which ship did you join?”
“One that did three- and four-day cruises out of Miami,” I said.
He shook his head. “No wonder it was terrible. They’re the worst—only alcoholics and lunatics can handle that kind of schedule. The cruises I do last a minimum of 14 days. Some even run for 60, and there’s a world cruise lasting 100 days.”
I stared at him. “What? Why didn’t you say so earlier?”
Not that it would have mattered. I’d been sold the moment he mentioned I could do what I was already doing while traveling the world. I was probably just looking for someone to blame.
“There’s a company in London that specialises in higher-end cruises. I can put you in touch if you’re interested.”
I hesitated. “I don’t think so,” I said, though even I could hear the uncertainty in my voice.
I was feeling lost. I had come back and found myself shuffling between jobs, living in a tiny bedsit, while my girlfriend moved on with her life in another town. I couldn’t blame her.
Not only that, but I felt like I was stuck in Groundhog Day for the terminally bewildered.
What should I do? What should I do?
Later that evening, I caught up with him again.
“Can I have that contact number, just out of curiosity?”
“Sure.” He looked it up and handed it to me.
…Am I completely out of my mind? I couldn’t tell whether that was a rhetorical question or not.
