by Beverly Harris-Schenz

He was supposed to arrive after we docked in Brazil. No one knew when, so everyone was on high alert. The crew was doing everything possible to insure that our ship the MV Explorer was in perfect condition: teams of workers on the external decks were scurrying around like mice with buckets of paint to re-touch unseen scratches, others were using cleaning cloths to polish already gleaming brass fixtures on railings and doors. Inside, the drone of what seemed to be hundreds of vacuum cleaners could be heard in the corridors looking for lint. Purser’s Square, the main reception area for new passengers, was a blur of activity, as new floral arrangements were installed, sitting areas were re-arranged, reception areas were dusted, and information sheets and brochures were re-stacked and organized. At the same time, there was a low-volume buzz of conversational gambits: When is he boarding? Is his wife arriving with him or later? What do you call him? Is their cabin ready? Will they have eaten? Which officers are to greet him? Then suddenly silence descended over the masses, as someone heard a whisper from afar: He’s coming down the corridor with the Captain and Dean John. Everything stopped. People put aside or hid what they had been doing and stood at full attention: Archbishop Desmond Mpilo Tutu had just boarded the vessel.

A slightly built, short man, with rich coffee brown skin that was in sharp contrast to his hazel eyes and tightly curled cropped hair like white cotton candy peeping out from under his cap, he flashed a luminous smile of even white teeth. Looking through gold-wire rimmed glasses that sat comfortably on his distinctively broad nose, he wore a navy fisherman’s cap, jauntily tilted a bit to the left and a matching navy fleece jacket. Underneath one could see a white clerical collar accompanied by a heavy silver cross. He smiled broadly and kindly at everyone, his gaze lingering briefly on each face, as he passed. However, his was not the expected look of a man of the cloth. Shouldn’t an Archbishop be tall, solemn, and white-skinned? Although his first request: “May I go to the crew area?” perplexed his welcome team, it was granted immediately. They probably wondered why he would want to go there. What they didn’t know then is that the Arch (as he preferred to be called) always went first to greet “the least of these.”

When he entered the “crew mess,” the formal designation for the crew kitchen and dining area, he was immediately recognized and warmly received. He walked from table to table, greeting each person and was frequently asked, “Your Grace, would you please bless me?” He smiled briefly, acceding to every request, pausing to close his eyes, murmuring something beneath his breath, and tracing the sign of the cross on the forehead of the man or woman who knelt before him. Some crew members were Catholic, others Protestant, or Jewish, and some agnostic or atheist, but regardless of religious affiliation or lack thereof, most sought the blessing of this little man. After about an hour in the bowels of the ship, he returned to the upper deck to be welcomed by the officers and academic team of the MV Explorer.

Wherever the Arch went on the ship, numerous Semester at Sea students followed him, asking questions or listening closely. At a distance, this procession resembled a mother duck trailed by her ducklings, all in a row. His appeal was universal, and not limited to the faithful. One student’s comment was revealing: “Like, I am not Catholic or anything, but if he throws a mass, like I will be so there.”

This story originally appeared in Voices from the Attic, vol xxvii, edited by Jan Beatty (Pittsburgh: Carlow University Press), 2021, and is reprinted here with permission from the author.

The Arch: A Guest Post in Memory of Archbishop Desmond Tutu

by Beverly Harris-Schenz