Virgin Voyager
Sir Richard Branson invites Melanie and me for "any cruise of any length to any destination in the world."
No Children
“We aren’t cruise ship people.”
After 20 years of ever-so-gentle-but-relentless pestering from an unnamed brother-in-law1, we got caught with our guard down. Melanie and I caved2 for a family get-together cruise in the Caribbean on Virgin Voyages.
The numbers simply added up.
For $2.53 we could fly Spirit Airlines from LaGuardia to Fort Lauderdale3 then pay some not-entirely-outrageous-come-to-think-of-it cruise cost. Stops at Puerto Rico, somewhere else, and a Virgin Island (As in St. Croix Virgin Island, not Prince Andrew Virgin Island.4) We were promised “only 5 days” and Virgin has a policy of “no passengers under 21.” Like I said.5
Now this is where the numbers and hyphenated words get interesting. They cancelled the cruise for a very simple reason.
“The ship isn’t finished.”
You read that correctly.
“We’re canceling the cruise. We do not have a ship.”
I didn’t know this was possible. Did they lose count of their ships?6 This seems like something you might know before offering deep discounts. It’s not like they are selling software.
Sir Richard
In the place of the canceled cruise, at the very bottom of an apology letter the length of an Australian buffet line, Sir Richard Branson personally signed a tiny jpeg with a white background that stood out against the bold Virgin red background (not shown).
In the smallest, narrowest, lowest contrast white font Virgin Voyages available, they offered the cancelled passengers “any cruise anywhere in the world for any length of time.” Plus $600 $1200 of compensatory bar credits.
Faster than you can say, “No effing way, let me see that,” Melanie and I became “cruise diehards with or without passengers under 21.”7 You would now have to peel our fingernails out of the lifeboat oar locks to tear us away from a our any cruise ship that goes “anywhere in the world for any length of time.”
“We’ll take our chances on a cracked hull. It won’t be any different than flying on a Boeing.”
Giddily, Tittering, we selected a fourteen-day cruise from Singapore to Dubai, stopping at Bucket List Destinations in India, Sri Lanka, Thailand, and the United Arab Emirates8. The roles with my brother-in-law Andrew – once again, not his real name9 – were ironically reversed. With an even-more-ever-so-gentle-pitch I spent a long What’s-App video call convincing a cell phone screen tiled with friends and relatives to join “Melanie and my” mega-cruise. There are now 8 of us. 7 are sleeping yet another one off upstairs right now.
So we purchased non-refundable tickets to Singapore, arranged non-refundable hotels, took off non-refundable time from work and set off.10 By “we” I mean Melanie made that series of regrettable purchase decisions11, checking the “Yes, I agree that everyone protects their trip but me” required field on Expedia.
And we were off!
No, We Weren’t
A second letter arrived from Sir Richard Branson.
“Greetings from Virgin Island. Your second cruise has also been canceled. Terrorists in lopended fishing boats are target shooting all floating objects in the Gulf of I’m-Too-Lazy-To-Look-It-Up.
“However,” Sir Richard continued, “I promise you that you may still go anywhere in the world for any length of time on my dime.”
“Well, that’s still awfully generous,” we said.
“Except you may not come to my personal Virgin Island.”
So, we were right back at brochure research, the options thinning fast now.
We chose our third cruise.
By “we” I mean Melanie chose. I am the House of Lords. My English wife is Parliament. I have some vague, undocumented set of responsibilities and rights, and I’m-special-somehow-that-nobody-knows-exactly-why, but I also have no say in all any some exactly zero matters like this.
West Coast Houthi Rebels In Lopended Fishing Boats
I write you from that very cruise, the one directly after the one with the no-definitely-non-refundable airfare and hotels to Singapore.12 I am sitting on Deck 114 near the Eternal Bottomless Latte stand. It is 5:32AM.
Even at this early hour, piped in music floods in overhead. There is no escape from piped-in music on this ship. I have tried to find a quiet place to write, but the “Piped-In” blasts even from our cabin bed’s headboard. It streams from the showerhead.13 I can adjust the showerhead volume on Rainy Day Women #12 & 35 if I am willing to take an ice cold shower. Obviously, none of this is accurate, and I’m exaggerating.14
This cruise is currently navigating us from Kep Town, Seth Efrica to Barthelona with – see the fine print the House of Lords tried to tell her she should have read – not a single port of call for 17 straight days from the windswept sands of Namibia to the canaries of Tenerife of which 135 days have now been spent deep-sea-scanning-the-horizon for signs of land anything fleets of “fishing boats” with rebels, their submerged outboards and mounted machine guns.
Honestly, any break in monotony would be welcome. A Cat 5 would be welcome.
You might think I’m kidding. Something dramatic in the ship’s movement would be fantastic. I’m disappointed by the slow roll. I want my morning yoga Warrior Pose Child’s Pose to crash end over end. I want sliding furniture in the galley and churning stabilizers in the hold. I want Scotty in the engine room.
Fresh fruit in the galley after Day #2 would also be welcome.
Someone opening a new restaurant would be welcome. Several have already gone out of business while we’ve been adrift.
We have eaten at all 32 restaurants 5 times, and the same wandering magician has interrupted our dinner to show us the same his one card trick in each of them. He does not remember us.
It Is Day 1492 at 7:55AM.15
I can’t take another day at sea.
I am standing on the 47th floor Leonardo deck of the cruise ship looking into the churning wake preparing to jump.
My ears haven’t unpopped since my first trip to the Olympic pool on the 162nd deck.
Deck 6 which is dedicated to human-scale Jenga towers and jigsaw puzzles has been closed off because if one puzzle or wooden slab is removed from all that hard work, the entire ship will veer off into Liberia.
We ran out of orange juice off of the coast of the Republic of Congo.
The free Swedish Fish in the game area are spent. (Partly responsible.)
The browning African bananas ran out before Namibia.
Our youngest passenger cleared 50 years of age during the Dotted Line Time equator party.
I am greeted everywhere with “Sailor” or, when we’re being herded for cruise events, “Ahoy, sailors.”
The staff is genuinely friendly in ways that are so generous and warm as to border on insensitive and “not reading the room.”
I can’t go on.
I Was Going To Exercise Every Day During This Trip
I was going to exercise every day during this trip.
Lifeboat Mystery Resolved, Then I’m Jumping. Promise.
While scanning for an open West Coast Houthis franchise™,16 I’ve taken the time to look into the Resilient Lady’s lifeboat situation.
Allow me to settle the argument once and for all: six lifeboats cannot hold forty-five-thousand Australian passengers, the majority of whom, and I’m sorry-Melbourne-But-I-Know-You-Suspect-This-Too, can give Americans a run for their our dollar in calories, kilos, alcohol consumption and square footage of tatooage. I have taken to calling them Minnesotralians.17
To be fair, after six weeks of free food and no land, we are all getting pretty beefed-up and starting to look like Minnesotralians.
But the lifeboats, the lifeboats:
If you’ve looked at a cruise ship in a harbor for even ten seconds, I’m sure you share the same anxiety I have: there’s-no-way-there-are-enough-lifeboats dangling from the sides of these steroidal monstrosities. And you would be correct. There are not enough lifeboats. You couldn’t clear the jacuzzis of Minnesotralians.
Land & Landlubbers
You are not going to believe me, but while I was typing about lifeboats and Minnesotralians, Melanie came up to me in my Early Morning Piped-In Quiet Space Library, and she said the most beautiful word in the English American Australian language.
She said, “Land.”18
Ahoy, Sailors!
At this point, I’m so primed for landlubbing, I will kiss the hot pavement of the cruise ship parking lot.
Quick note for my Unsubscribers: this is first of 27 parts.
Andrew
I caved.
Plus $450 in baggage fees and a $25 charge to tilt your seat back two clicks.
No relation. The coincidence is unfortunate, but England ran out of men’s names three kings ago.
I can wait. It’s funny.
There are three. They are identical.
“Mel, at this point I don’t care if the friends and relatives come. We are getting on that boat. I won’t die with the regret of not going on that cruise.” This is an actual quote. Tears welled in my eyes.
I haven’t manipulated with tears this shamelessly since I insisted on saving Winston from the cat shelter. It was 1992. ASPCA on 92nd Street and 1st. He was the only cat to choose from that day. We had originally left the shelter without him, but then I brought us to a hard stop by an alleyway just outside. Our marriage was young, and Melanie who picks everything carefully except husbands, caved.
Winston has now been gone a long time. I loved that cat. He used to sit on my shoulder as I walked around the house. He had no idea what species he belonged to, and he rode on my shoulder like a sultan. When he got cancer, we had to put him down, and I wept another bookend for him. Two tearful bookends of “I don’t want to lose that creature.” Sorry, this got heavy and went completely off road.
The moment the AI is satisfactory, I will post a picture of the two of us together with him once again on my shoulder like a sultan.
Wrong geographic order, but it’s very early here. You get it.
Yes, it is. No, it isn’t. Yes, it is.
Don’t check that box. Buy the travel insurance.
Under the 🚌, you go.
Expedia tried to tell us Melanie. 🚌.
Rainy Day Women #12 & 35, Slow Train Coming and Tubular Bells. The Get High, Repent, and Go to Heaven playlist.
No, I’m not. Yes, I am. No, I’m not.
Because we are so far from land, my iPhone and watch have not updated the time zone correctly, and I have to subtract an hour every time I look at my watch. I also have forgotten several times to reset my alarm, so I’m accidentally waking Melanie at 4AM.
She makes a show of thrashing the sheets violently and surfacing a single angry eye like an outraged dolphin. Fifteen minutes of yoga lion breathing by the cabin door after the alarm interruption doesn’t help either.
(Long pause) “No, it’s fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“It’s fine.”
Splash.
I image my West Coast Houthis shooting at a nearly deflated volleyball in the ocean and crying out, “يموت، ويلسون.” (“Die, Wilson! Die!”)
They were Dundee-Fit at embarkation to a man and woman.
Last night she cried out, “Birds!” and tried to get me to look up. They were soaring over the pool waiting for a Minnesotralians to expose a snack.
Epic footnotes!
(Great story, too.)
Great story. First time I have had to use my laptop to read and my phone for footnotes. I have always loved the idea of an Alaskan cruise. My wife uses words like e coli, botulism, people, germs, noise, people, sardine can, watery graves, people. I try to convince her that she only hears about the rare problems, that there are hundreds of cruises absent of disaster. But I could be wrong, maybe you don't hear about the others because they got cancelled. Don't tell her