I recently saw a magazine cover with a picture of a redhead on it. She reminded me of someone I once met at sea, whose name was Mariana. She lived in Brazil.

My second wife and I were in London when we decided to separate permanently. We flew back to New York, and she split for Reno to get the divorce. I had a good job waiting for me in Argentina, but now I was broke. I had a month to get to Buenos Aires, or I would lose the job. What was I to do?

I went over to the Empire State Building where I had a buddy working at WOR-TV up at the top. He was a very smart guy, and I hoped he'd have some ideas. Luck was with me. A mutual friend was visiting him that day from Puerto Rico. We had been roommates in college, and had literally been "asshole buddies" from time to time. He was from a wealthy island family with connections to the sea trade.

He had come to New York on business, having flown up in his own twin-engine Cessna, a beautiful little plane. I was a pilot, too, which was another reason we got along. We both loved flying. Wouldn't you know, he invited me to join him for the trip home, and promised to try and get me a job on a ship sailing from San Juan to South America!

He had flown to Miami with his younger brother, who was a student there, and had flown on alone to New York. The brother would be remaining in Miami, so my friend needed a co-pilot for the sea leg of the trip home. Who better than I? It was perfect. I had never flown over open sea in that small a craft, certainly not at the controls, and certainly not while exchanging head jobs with my buddy during the flight. I guess he figured, as many guys do, that he'd have to play it straight after marriage. I considered that a wait-and-see game. Time always tells.

In Puerto Rico, safely married and in the passionate clutches of his sexy new wife, he found me a ship, as had promised. Away I sailed for Argentina as a waiter in First Class.

We stopped at ports of call in the West Indies and then at Belém in Brazil. We picked up quite a few passengers there. I had a lot of nice people at my station, but in another waiter's area I noticed an extremely beautiful, red-haired woman who always sat with an older man. I was told they occupied the most luxurious suite on the boat. He had a distinguished air and the appearance of a very rich man. It was obvious how handsome he had been when he was younger. He hadn't lost his looks. They, like everybody else on board, were bound for Carnival in Rio, the hottest celebration in the world. Every time I passed their table, they both gave me a smile. Naturally, I smiled back and gave them a friendly nod.

Late on the night before docking at Rio, I stood alone on the rear deck in the crew's area, watching the sea roll by. The moon was shining, and I could see the Southern Cross a galaxy or two away.

The other waiters were in their cabins resting up for shore leave. I knew what to expect: three days and nights of wild dancing in the streets to the samba bands on parade; gorgeous girls gyrating on floats in elaborate headdresses towering high above sequinned costumes that rarely covered their tits and ass at the same time; vendors hawking caixasa, the Brazilian rotgut whiskey that made people bold enough to lie around fucking in public parks. I had been to Carnival in Rio before.

There had been a party upstairs in the ship's main saloon--dancing to the orchestra beside a glittering champagne buffet, people toasting the safe journey, some of them clowning around with the microphone, singing badly and telling worse jokes. But at this hour, everybody should have been in bed. That's why I jumped a foot when someone tapped my shoulder from behind. I wheeled around to find myself face to face with the older fellow from the redhead's table.

"Oh, sir," I said right away, "passengers aren't allowed! The captain gets very upset if they're found down here."

"I'm sure the captain won't notice, young man," he grinned, speaking English with a European accent that struck me as Swiss. "He drank a bit too much at the party. I'm sure he's snoring by now. I'm Max, by the way. I thought someone could help me locate a jeroboam of champagne. I'd be happy to share it with whomever will do that for me."

I bowed slightly and offered him a nice smile. "Well, sir, you've come to the right man. I happen to know where the wine-cellar keys are kept!"

I led him back through the gangway and accomplished the task.

But it wasn't over yet.

"I promised you a share," he said. "I have plenty of glasses in my suite."

I had never visited the Royal Suite. It was elegant in the Continental manner. The large sitting room had the ambience of a luxurious hotel in Paris, its gilt rococo furnishings upholstered in pink and white silk. I offered to open the champagne.

"No," he refused, "my wife will do the honors."