A Lifecycle Aboard a Cruise

Since last week left you on a cliffhanger, let’s just say I was right about the cruise and not at all disappointed. After all, I’ve experienced my entire lifecycle on a cruise.

It began as an adolescent, when my grandparents took my sister and myself on one. I don’t remember there being other children in that huge and formal hotel. Some might look forward to the costume party, but for me dressing up for dinner seemed oppressive and uninteresting, like a punishment. Or algebra.

The pools, people and floating resort were fascinating and I dug the steel drum band that played Harry Belafonte and Jimmy Buffett on an elongated loop while my fellow passengers played games in the pool. I didn’t understand why it was a big deal to meet the captain over dinner though I showed up in my fancy outfit anyway, petrified no one was driving the boat while he went around shaking hands. 

We walked off the dock in Nassau, Bahamas and sampled the wares of the local wicker artists. My senses were bombarded with smells and colors, a warm breeze challenging my avowed misery. My grandmother, a trailblazing woman who traveled on her own in the 1970s because she wanted to see the world, explained how important it was to support local artisans. And talk to them. And maybe invite them to come visit. Which everyone in my family winds up doing anyway.

When I was young and dating, I did a quick hop to Bermuda. The boyfriend was kind and handsome and a great dancer, and I’m sure he made some woman very happy, but that woman wasn’t me. The cavernous ship felt like being stuck inside a floating time bomb that was ticking. Loudly. I stood at the railing, feeling the wind in my hair, listening to Cat Stevens’ Moonshadow piping in from somewhere and understood that he was not the king of my world. The white sands of Bermuda proved a final lovely rest stop before we hit our destination and parted ways.

Ships are lousy with young couples, hopeful and probing. They are nearly indistinguishable from the gooey eyed, exhausted stares of the honeymooners, of which I was one as well. Twenty-five years ago, we set sail to Tulum and Cozumel where I worried I was already too fat to be in a bathing suit, which was 100lbs. lighter than what I would become. With all that wedding planning behind us, we were ready to begin. And also relax. Back then, we were forced to dine with people we’d never met as the sea sped by outside floor to ceiling windows, while a lovely man served us and I tried not to feel bad that he hadn’t seen his family in years. Weirdly, I succeeded.

Honeymooners attend the meals as more of an afterthought. Maybe they come to what used to be bingo, dancing late into the night. It is a nice moment to have. We weren’t ever dreamy like that, but I know that feeling and I have loved him that way for at least 20 of the last 25 years. This morning at breakfast, as he was bringing plate after plate of food I didn’t ask for, but enjoyed nonetheless, a woman next to me said, “boy you’re lucky.” Honestly, lady, you don’t know the half of it.

When we had children, we cruised together as an extended family. It was wonderful. No one fought over dinner or worried over checks. In odd groups of 11 we sampled and enjoyed. My mother-in-law took the night shift, running the kids on her late night wanderings through various dining options. My mother got to have her escargot every single night. The kids spent their time learning all the tiny corners of the vessel, from buffets to bars that served exciting virgin drinks to them—something for everyone. I wasn’t a fan of the kids’ camps though I appreciated the rarely used option, as my husband views spending time with anyone’s kids as a glorious opportunity, which I can’t say for myself, though I’m not beyond the deflected credit.

I took care of the adults, following the long wooden railing and solid teak floors from trivia games to Bingo, from shows to hot tubs, trying not control every interaction one of them had with my boys. I kept myself busy being practical and replacing missing cruise ids. If you are not familiar with the concept, once onboard, they convert your life to this one card. It is the key to your room, and the place they put the sticker for your drink package. They prefer that you forget that it is also linked to your personal credit card and all debts are paid in the end, both physical and financial, but they don’t know me that well. That’s the only thing I’ll remember.

Each night dinner had the same waiter but a different country’s culinary theme as they dressed up accordingly and marched through the dining room in costume, serving us drinks with tiny umbrella flags to indicate that night’s culinary jaunt. There was something profoundly sad about that, but I still can’t figure out why. It wasn’t like it made dinner any less tasty. Still, I was glad when they gave it up.

These trips are beautiful memories made as a family. It was time I got to spend with my mother, to see her delight as people served her three orders of chocolate cake while she watched her adored grandchildren play. Back then, I didn’t understand how truly short our time would be. 

I haven’t been to sea for quite a while. My kids are grown and we are here with another couple of empty nesters. We have arrived at the beginning of the tail end of our life cycle of cruising. We frequent the fancy bars and art auctions, grateful there are no kids at them. We spend leisurely afternoons with rum punch that leads to long naps, sober dinners, and early-to-beds. Instead of just enjoying the ocean, I’m retaining the salt water in my ankles. It’s a different cruising calculus.

And yet, it’s the same, because what cruising offers its passengers is the ability to be treated like royalty. When do we ever get that opportunity? And isn’t that an indication of a great vacation? An opportunity to turn you into someone different for a week. It’s pay-to-play here and if you’re on board they will do their best to accommodate you during the week you’re at sea—the second Sunday rolls around, the curtain comes down and kindness gives way to the need to clean for the next crop of wannabes. Which is true of life as well.

And there are things that never change. The walking track is always crowded the first few days, the shows are jam

packed, the drinks are weak but plentiful and the food borders on obscene. Some people never see the pool, and some folks never visit the buffet. Some are at every show, gambling the voyage away, while others (me) are quick to call it a night. This is what makes cruising so nice for everyone. Besides the staff, who are always smiling, ever accommodating and kind, but don’t remember you the next day. Again, a lifecycle in a week.

This cruise has been a revelation, as any good vacation becomes. It even came with the requisite panic I had to overcome--this time in the form of snorkeling, though the advantage of experience has showed me that I can find the right technique to overcome my fears when I have incentive. And what is witnessing a conch’s shell prints as it moves through a sandy ocean bottom, if not that?

If you read last week’s piece, you know that this trip was a total surprise to my friend and me, planned by our husbands. The boys did all the legwork and knocked it out of the park. It has been a wonderful and needed rest from the picture worthy, but freezing Massachusetts winter.

All right, fellas. Next year’s lady’s choice! Stay tuned.