She strains at her lines the smoke from her funnels trailing..
She was so vast, so tall, so …immense and they were are so sure. I said it before, and I will say it forever: we have learned so little from losing so much.
When I discovered – quite by accident – that there was a permanent Titanic artifact exhibition in Orlando – only an hour’s drive away – going wasn’t a question, it was a requirement. Nearly as much of a requirement as Disney world. This ship, this doomed monster of steel and rivets, has become very dear to me over the years. There are, as always, reasons for that I suppose, but wherever it came from, the interest remains.
The exhibition is beautiful, laid out with incredible respect and care. There is everything here from actual rivets from the ship’s wall, to sheet music from one of the musicians who was travelling to the states in third class. The second room in the museum even featured a luggage tag that – aside from some water damage – looked as if it could have been taken of a suitcase yesterday. That same room was set up as a replica of the original dock, with the massive towering painted wall of the ship rising up on one side. A reproduction of course, there are no painted pieces of the ship remaining – let alone one that large – but intimidating none the less. For a while I just stood there and stared up at that red and blue wall. Just stared, not sure what I was thinking, or if I was thinking anything, just…drawn to it. It was not the first or the last thing in the space I felt the same thing about.
What always takes my breath away about these exhibits is the types of things that survived vrs the types of things that don’t. There is no sign of a single mirror for example, and many of the larger items are long gone, at yet pieces of currency and coins and shoes have survived not only intact by almost looking new. When another section of the artifact exhibit travelled to my hometown, it was the tiny perfectly preserved children’s marbles that brought me to tears.
They had also built a breathtaking replica of the first class Café Parsian, where I found myself fascinated by a champagne bottle that still had its contents after all these years.
The passages continued to twist and turn, winding through photos of survivors and descriptions of the doomed class system; even the deck plans showing every last detail of the ship as she was before she became as she is. And the 1996 photo mosaic that shows what she is now. I stared at that for a very long while as well.
She really was a beautiful ship, the first class stairway was…wonderful…have you seen it?
As the voice of the survivor echoed those words through the room we turned another corner and there it actually was. A full scale, complete replica of the Grand Staircase, complete with it’s gleaming brass cherub crowning the railing at the foot of the sweeping stairs. I stopped, I caught my breath, I stared, and I felt the tears come tracking down.
And then we turned a corner and found ourselves in a third class passageway. Far from the sumptuous glamour of the first class cabins, far from the clinking chatter of the upper class cafes and dining rooms; these walls were white and bare, and at the end of the hallway was one sturdy looking gate. Barred. Locked. Some people will have known those gates from the movie, some will know them from history, I stood there with my hand on those bars for what felt like a very long time looking up at the door behind them…
They locked them in…all those people, they locked them in
The fact that’s so difficult to forget, but that no one wants to think about.
The next hallway was lined with the newspapers that reported the confused views of the sinking before all the facts were known, leading up to the cold “No More Hope: 1,563 Lost” blaring in bold headlines across the top of the page. Only 704 survivors, all on the Carpathia.
There were a lot of large artifacts at this location that I was not expecting: the telegraph from the bridge, standing in stoic silence in the echoing chamber built to replicate the bridge itself. It’s orders still set at “hard astern”
If he had just not turned…
Hmm?
If Murdoch hadn’t ordered a hard starboard turn, hadn’t tried to back up and swing…then she would have rammed the iceberg head out, the bow would have crumpled, but only four of the water tight compartments would have filled – she wouldn’t have sunk.
Where did they find all this?
The telegraph you mean? It all came from the wreck site…for years, Ballard would not even give up the co-ordinates. She was a grave site, he wanted her respected, I’d give a lot to know why he changed his mind on that; but it’s never been published. There were things there when he first sited here that weren’t there when he returned…
Seriously?
Yup…
Beyond the bridge was a replica of the boat deck, cold and soundless and resplendent with millions of stars, a small sample of what it could have felt like that night before disaster literally struck.
And in the next room was what it struck against, or at least the closest replica that an indoor controlled environment can manage: a massive freshwater iceberg (which would not be as cold as the actual saltwater berg that sunk the liner) rearing up inviting you to lay your hands on it. The thing is, that ice is so cold that you cannot lay bare skin on it for more than a few minutes without the pain shooting up to your elbows. And it would have been so very much colder…and the cold always always wins.
But it was the end of the exhibit that I was mentally preparing myself for. I knew it was there, but even catching glimpses around the corner it – for a split second – stopped my heart.
Hanging suspended from a massive metal frame that was probably custom built to support it…was “the little big piece” the second largest piece of the actual hull of the Titanic ever salvaged, broken of from the 15-foot piece that’s housed in Vegas. Even, in one small place, there is a trace of the original red paint. I could do nothing but just stand and…watch it.
So if you think of the Titanic as your body, this piece? Is a thumbnail.
Off to one side there was a separate glass case, housing one tiny scrap of metal that has been treated so that it can handle the touch of a human fingertip. I don’t think I’ve ever gripped anyone’s hand as tightly as I did Amras’ when I slid my fingertips through the tiny opening in the case and brushed that rough surface. It felt like petrified wood. It felt, oddly, peaceful…which is not what I expected. Although I could feel my heart physically slow down, and the shivers I had gotten from the iceberg seemed to intensify…a lot…it did take me a while to completely feel like I’d warmed up.
I just went back to staring, and staring…and staring…
Until I finally emerged blinking into the gift shop, where I added another documentary book to my collection…and fought the urge to go back and just plant myself on the floor in front of that massive piece of iron and just…stare at her…and try to hear what it is she wants to tell me. Because she may be quiet, but she’s loud. And don’t ask me to explain that because I can’t but …it’s true none the less.
There has never been a ship quite like her again…there can’t be…because it hurt too much when we lost her…