Free Ride the Titanic! by Paul Lally

pay the airfreight. Besides, this way, you get the scenic route. Let’s get you loaded up. Got a full trip going over.’
    The cavernous interior of the vessel, once designed to carry army tanks on shore, is empty save for a single row of nylon-webbed seats bolted to both sides of the hull.
    ‘Looks like you’ve got plenty of room,’ I say.
    ‘For now. But when those movie folks show up, it’s going to be a zoo.’
    ‘Movie?’
    Two hours and three coffees later, two beat-up U-Haul trucks answer my question as they back up to the dock, followed by a string of cars out of which piles a chattering, laughing, smiling, sun-glasses-covered mob of young men and women, plus a gaggle of older folks tagging behind like nervous chaperones on a senior class trip to New York City.
    ‘Hi, Bo! Whadd’ya’ know, Bo?’ and ‘What ho, Bo!’ greetings buzz into the humid air like happy bees as the actors and actresses surround the captain, who takes it all in with a grand sense of noblesse oblige .
    ‘What’s the movie this time?’ he says.
    ‘ Devil’s Bay .’
    ‘Horror or thriller?’
    One of the young men stiffens, sticks out his arms and staggers around like a zombie. ‘Undead, undead!’
    ‘How long you there?’
    A beautiful young blonde dressed in impossibly short, shorts says in a whispery Marilyn Monroe voice, ‘Ten days principal photography. Four, second unit, providing everybody learns their lines instead of drinking all night, right kids?’
    A howl of protest rises from the group, but she ignores them and turns to the crew unloading the rental trucks. ‘Last on, first off, Jimmy. Make sure the lab set stays in front. And lash the camera cases on top of the C-stand cases.’
    ‘Got it, Ellie.’ Jimmy salutes briskly, while his co-worker stares at her like the Playboy foldout she resembles.
    She breezily ignores his leer and turns back to the group of actors. ‘Don’t just stand there, kids, let’s off-load!’
    At the sound of her sharp, authoritative voice, what was a jovial gang becomes an orderly parade of actors and stage hands lugging scenery flats, props, costumes and mysterious crates and cases of camera gear onto the landing craft and securing them.
    I learn from Bo that these are the Port Players , a repertory company formed by Eleanor Whitney, the Playboy fold-out-style film director now hefting a bundle of costumes on her shoulder like a bale of cotton and loading it onto the boat herself.
    ‘They sail over to Bermuda once a year to make an Indy movie,’ Bo continues. ‘Last year a spy film, year before, some detective thing. This time it’s zombies and monsters, at least based on that. . .’
    He points to a green-scaled, reptilian-like costume with webbed feet and hands in the arms of one of the actors.
    ‘Two weeks shooting?’ I say. ‘That can’t come cheap.’
    ‘Her old man’s got money, she’s got ambition. Nice combination.’
    ‘Must be nice to have a husband like that.’
    He grins. ‘Her old, OLD man. Her daddy’s swimming in offshore crude oil. Lots of it.’
    By noon the LCT is fully loaded, lashed down and ready to shove off. Stacks of scenery flats, piles of camera gear, luggage, props, and mystery packages surround my Ride the Titanic cargo as though they’re old pals on a common journey.
    I kneel down to inspect the lashings to make sure they’re still secure. A tan pair of legs with red-painted toenails sidles up to me and in a breathy voice says in a half-whisper. ‘Some kind of a machine inside?’
    ‘Just a model.’
    ‘Oh.’ A long pause. ‘Of what?’
    I finish checking the lashings and stand. ‘Rather not say at the moment.’ I stick out my hand. ‘Mike Sullivan.’
    Her handshake is cool, dry and strong. ‘Eleanor Whitney, but Ellie’s fine. I’m the producer and director of this gang of thieves masquerading as actors.’
    ‘You don’t look like any director I’ve ever seen. And I’ve known a few in my time.’
    Her cornflower blue