I Write, So I Am

Ship to Shore Sampler 

Copyright © 2021 by B. G. Peretz 

All rights are reserved. The author must grant permission to reproduce, store, or transmit in any form or electronic or mechanical means. The author must grant permission to allow photocopying, recording, or scanning this material; further, it is illegal to copy, post to a website, or distribute by any other means without permission. 

First edition 

Copyright page based on format used by Reedsy e-book formatter. 

SAFETY DRILL 

This book is an example of the Ship to Shore series. I created it to give away to spark interest among readers to get more of my works. In it, I want to give a taste of my writing. 

When I finished writing, I asked myself if I wrote a eulogy for the cruise vacation. The new coronavirus termed COVID-19 upended the planet and turned ships into hellish versions of the Flying Dutchman, with nowhere to go and passengers unwanted by every port. Companies canceled sailings by the hundreds, and the industry lost thousands of jobs. The market was uncertain. Millions of potential customers lost their jobs or businesses and then couldn’t afford to cruise. And many folks didn’t wish to board vessels that could become floating nightmares such as those they saw in news reports. Then the CDC shut down American cruising. 

Critics of cruising have said the ships are a major source of pollution, greenhouse gases, food waste, and tourist overcrowding. They are happy to see the business suffer. But many economies depend on the jobs and money cruise tourism brings to their shores. This industry belongs in the world’s grand scheme and deserves to survive this calamity. 

I once said regarding the risks of touring the globe: “When you are a tourist, pray the government doesn’t fall, and the volcano doesn’t explode.” Then the coronavirus pandemic struck. I had to change my axiom. Now it reads this way: “When you are a tourist, pray the government doesn’t fall, the volcano doesn’t explode, and you are immune to the plague.” 

Now, an explanation of company names. I have avoided identifying any current ones (except in a historical context) to fend off any lawsuits. There are allusions and vague references, but I have harmed no titles or trademarks in making this book. I name ships, and thus the reader can infer the cruise line, but there are no opinions on their merits. This work issues no stars, diamonds, or circles. 

This review concludes the book orientation. I hope you enjoy the passages within. When it’s safe to breathe the salt air again, you may roam the world by the sea with me.

INTRODUCTION 

Maybe you can call me Ishmael. It might be a good start for writing on vacationing and the sea. It worked for Melville’s book on whaling. 

I am edgy; you can call me a curmudgeon. But I love cruising and being on the water. I love watching a ship’s wake intercept the waves, seabirds salute as they fly by, and clouds dance on sea breezes as they slip past. A far island floating by, fleeting and tantalizing, an aquatic mirage shimmering in the distant haze; this sight quickens my churlish heart. 

In another era, I might have been a surly whaler after that white whale. Or the steely captain of a clipper ship sprinting along with the trade winds. But enough romance. I’m just an ornery tourist sailing in a global, multi-billion dollar industry. Pretty mundane. 

I have traveled to many places by ship. My experience has not just broadened my horizons but has made me, a cynic, laugh, too. Yes, I want to entertain you with my raffish wit in this book, but I wish to teach you something if I can, too. I don’t see myself as a mere travel writer. I imagine myself being to 21st Century touring what de Tocqueville was to 19th Century Americana, but with a more acidic bite (not too many delusions of grandeur). You will journey with my eyes. It’s a jaunt with a different drummer. I not only think out of the box—I live outside it. Newcomers should chuckle over the strange world where cruises brought me. I want those who never viewed a Maya pyramid’s steps to get a sense of narrow spaces. Seasoned cruisers should snicker while reading these tales. I want those whose tour of a foreign island was cow sighting and stopping at trinket peddlers to sneer with me. 

Nevertheless, there were poignant moments, on sea and shore, that this grump must honor. The ridiculous and the sublime went hand in hand in making my vacation memories. 

I have sailed most of the major lines on both the smaller old ships and the behemoths big enough to swallow Jonah’s Whale and still have room on the upper deck for a tree-filled park.  I crossed the Atlantic in the footsteps of grand ocean liners of the past. My eyes have seen the Caribbean, Gulf of Mexico, Mediterranean, and Pacific, too. My ships visited North America, Central America, South America, Europe, and Asia; reaching four continents isn’t bad, and from the sea lanes, I glimpsed another one gliding by. I crossed the Arctic Circle and circled Hawaii. And I visited dozens of lands as my sea legs turned into touring legs. I've been around. But I haven't attended a reception with Neptune after crossing the equator, and I haven't sailed on any of the boutique lines with their specialized ships. I still have waves ahead of me.

Cruising formed the root of my travels; it was the common denominator in my trips. I may have ventured far inland, but I touched the deck of a ship somewhere along the way. Thus, I write of being a tile in the grand mosaic of today’s cruise and tourism industry. I cover many destinations. Many ports hosted scads of tourists; a few harbors were places I once could not enter. Many sea shanties to sing, with more ahead. As long as I can haul my body on board to kvetch, snipe, and smile, I will cruise and tour. So, travel with me, and enjoy my ship and world.

IN THE BEGINNING 

In another century, in a different millennium, in a land not far away, my parents took me on my first cruise. I was 10, and it was 1962 in a New York before the World’s Fair, the bridge to Staten Island, and the World Trade Center. It was summer, and the brand-new New York Mets were well on their way to setting baseball’s record for losing the most games in a season. 

If my memory is right, we traveled on an Italian Line ship called the Provence. We sailed from the West Side piers of Manhattan, where great ocean liners once made their American home. Our ship headed to sea for seven days, stopping in Bermuda and Nassau. We departed from an old pier, amongst a collection of old, dying passenger piers in a once-grand location. Today, it’s gone. 

Boarding that ship was simpler in those days. Before COVID’s stasis, passengers could have thought they made a wrong turn and arrived at the airport. They passed their luggage through X-Ray machines, and they traipsed through metal detectors; at least they kept their shoes on. They walked onto the ship through a ramp that resembled a plane’s jet bridge. When I first cruised, I just crossed a gangway onto the vessel. In a more innocent age, a ticket was the only security needed. 

The ship was old even then. As I recall, we had a stateroom towards the front of the second deck. I was so excited to be there. Today, this cabin may sell on the Internet in last-minute deals, but it was the Presidential Suite to a ten-year-old. But I can’t recall much more of this room beyond it having a small, round porthole window and bunk beds if I’m right. Bunk beds—how cool for a ten-year-old kid! 

I remember only a few other details of that ship. It had small swimming pools where the water sloshed around as we were cruising. I thought it was neat that they became mini-oceans with their tides and currents. The kids took them over; a few things never change. 

The dining room, if I’m right, was nothing glamorous. I remember nothing of the food’s quality, but I remember one formal night dressing up in the white dinner jacket my mother bought me for the cruise. We took a family picture in our formal outfits. The flashbulb left little dots dancing in front of our eyes. Younger readers may never have seen one of these old pyrotechnic wonders at work. Besides blinding the subjects, they presented a disposal problem for the photographer, who had dozens of burnt-out bulbs to toss away after these photo sessions. 

I remember that I looked ill at ease in the photo. 

We sailed out from New York Harbor under the then-unfinished Verrazano Narrows Bridge. Only the towers and suspension cables stood in place; they didn’t support a roadbed yet. As we passed underneath, I remember looking up at the mighty bridge-to-be from the ship’s deck and snapping a picture of the steel cables. They resembled enormous spaghetti strands spanning the water. Beyond the bridge, I saw Coney Island, with its famous Cyclone coaster and Parachute Jump staring back at me. When heading to open seas in that era, whether to the Spanish Main or European shores, these sights were the final bit of land passengers saw. So, I bade farewell to land for my first time. 

I can remember the cruise only in pieces and fragments. Sailing from New York, the route to Bermuda and Nassau went through the notorious Bermuda Triangle. I had heard stories of disappearing ships and planes, but these didn’t faze me. I remember we were trailing a tropical weather system and had rough seas; many people felt queasy. Not I. Every night there was a sumptuous midnight buffet, and I recall diving fervidly into the pizzas. 

I remember playing ping-pong with my father on one deck, with sea spray wafting past us. I remember a few mechanical slot machines on the ship, too, and kids could play them at sea. Either the maritime laws were different, or the ship’s staff didn’t care. And so, I got my introduction to the one-armed bandit, whose descendant, the video slot, was to play such an important (and costly) role in my future cruising. 

My strongest memories of Bermuda are Hamilton’s brightly colored buildings, the mopeds cruising the roads, a natural pool with big turtles in it, and a visit to caverns. It disappointed me that the walkway to a rock feature named Donald Duck was closed because of flooding in the cave. What I remember of Nassau impressed me as somewhat menacing. My parents and I toured an old, dreary fort. The guide chanted his tour narration, and he rolled his r’s. Downright creepy to a 10-year-old. 

Back then, customs was different when arriving in the U.S.; agents combed through luggage on the pier. I suppose, in those pre-drug-epidemic days, they focused on undeclared jewelry and liquor. The quantity of alcohol you could bring in likely was different, and you didn’t need to be of age to drink it to bring it. It turned out I had excellent taste for my age. Courtesy of my parents, I brought back bottles of Cointreau, Drambuie, Chivas Regal, and crème de menthe. Years later, my folks and I drank from that Drambuie—it was still around—to toast my graduation from NYU with my master’s degree. 

The ship is long gone, as are Manhattan’s West Side piers. Steeplechase Park, the home of the Parachute Jump in Coney Island, is gone. The liquor is gone, as are my parents. The Verrazano Narrows Bridge became a busy thoroughfare among New York’s highways. It has an expensive one-way toll; every November, thousands of runners have crossed it to start the New York Marathon, except during the pandemic. This century’s world didn’t become as enlightened as the New York World’s Fair envisioned a couple of years later; it’s darker. But much of cruising wasn’t different from around fifty years ago. Thousands and thousands of passengers still wandered through Bermuda and Nassau each year. Kids took over pools and played ping-pong on the decks. People dressed for formal pictures in the dining room; slot machines still relieved people of money. And stormy weather continued. 

Perhaps the only change that mattered was that having grown up, worked, and finished my career, now I cruised as a retiree and enjoyed life at sea. How cool was that! 

ICONS 

Cruise ships today dwarf the traditional ocean liners. Take the Queen Mary and even the legendary Titanic. The Titanic was once the largest moving human-made object on Earth. It displaced around 52,000 tons, was 882 ft. long, 175 ft. high, and had nine decks. The Queen Mary, built in 1934, was a more modern ship. It displaced around 82,000 tons, was around 1,019 ft. long, 181 ft. high, and had twelve decks. Now, look at today. One of the first of the new mega-ships, the Freedom of the Seas, weighs a svelte 154,000 tons, is 1,112 ft. long, is a mere 209 ft. tall, and has only fifteen decks—but who’s counting. The Escape furthered this growth with its mind-boggling statistics: 164,000 tons and 1,069 ft. in length, jammed into a cramped twenty decks. Around 2,200 passengers and crew sailed on the Titanic to their fate. The Escape can sweep around 6,000 across friendlier waters—equal to a few well-attended minor league baseball games. But you can never have enough. Check out the Symphony of the Seas, a gargantuan creation at 228,081 gross tons, 1,184 ft. long, and eighteen decks high; its capacity of 6,680 passengers and 2,200 crew equals the low attendance at a major league game in Florida. This collection of humanity is the height of mass transit. 

Though many great old liners fell to the cutter’s torch, nostalgia saved a few ships. Before it was scrapped, the SS Independence had another life shuttling folks around the Hawaiian Islands. A group has tried to get the SS United States restored as a museum and cultural site moored in a U.S. city’s waterfront. The ship now sits at a Philadelphia pier waiting for restoration (look up W.C. Fields’ supposed epitaph involving Philadelphia for the height of sarcasm). If that group can get it fixed up, the United States Lines’ flagship will sail the same waters as the Queen Mary. 

The Queen Mary illustrates what can happen to an aged star whose time has passed. She wound up berthed in Long Beach, California, as a museum and hotel—a better fate than getting disassembled, I suppose. My wife and I toured her years ago during a trip to Los Angeles, and I found this relic fascinating. 

I noticed many amenities I take for granted on today’s ships earlier passengers considered a luxury. Yes, the first-class meal settings were fine china and crystal. The menu was gourmet cuisine. Works of fine art comprised the decor. But, getting past the fact the woodwork was authentic and not a laminated veneer, I realized I had as many comforts aboard modern vessels as those passengers had then. Sitting in a contemporary ship lounge and gazing through the windows at the sea or reclining in a deck chair topside and breathing the salt air was likely as comfortable for me as this relaxation was for the Queen Mary’s clientele. I saw no reason to spend more time inside a Queen Mary stateroom than in a modern cabin; for me, the room was a space to sleep, wash, and dress. I didn’t need Oysters Rockefeller or Château Lafite of any vintage. And the gym on that ship could fit into a Halloween fright film. The gym possessed contraptions such as the motorized beast with a belt that shook and slapped the rear end into shape. The only thing that didn’t resemble a torture instrument was the rowing machine. 

It was neat to see the history of the famous passengers the Queen Mary hosted. She transported the rich, famous, and powerful between Europe and America for decades. She was the setting for a 1960s movie, Assault on a Queen, where a gang planned to rob her at sea. In more innocent times, this fantasy wasn’t so threatening. Such was the Queen Mary’s mystique that Hollywood could spin this yarn on her. Today’s ships don’t have this magic. Wood veneer can’t replicate this quality. 

I wonder if a future entrepreneur might take one of today’s monster ships and turn it into a showpiece. I wonder if my counterpart then will gaze upon it and think: “Wow, no holodecks, no sonic showers, and no food replicators—how could they survive on this bucket?” (Thank you for setting the gold standard, Star Trek). And I will act as the ghosts strolling by on the Queen Mary’s deck do, with their straw hats and walking sticks in hand. I will think this: “You miss the point, old chap. Just breathe and smell the salt air rushing by you in the wind!” 

Source: Wikipedia. 

SAILING AWAY 

Most of my adult cruises sailed from Miami, Port Everglades, Port Canaveral, and Tampa. I’ll give you my take on departing from these Florida ports. 

Sunny south Florida was a giant net hauling in tourist dollars from the ocean. Miami and Port Everglades together accounted for over 9 million passengers in 2019, more people than New York City on a cruise (Sources: Wikipedia and Port Miami Statistics at a Glance). The passenger port in Miami was near the city’s famous downtown. When sailing out, we saw the skyline to starboard (right, for newbies); to the port side (left), we saw residential Miami’s condos and luxury apartments. The channel passed the famed Miami Beach oceanfront and hotels. So, Miami presented its glamorous, high-rise best as we headed out. Here, the big money wished us bon voyage. 

Port Everglades was alongside the Atlantic Intracoastal Waterway in Ft. Lauderdale. There was money here, too—BIG money. Besides the big, ostentatious homes, big, expensive yachts dotted the scene. So, while we were getting ready to sail on our cruise, a three-million-dollar boat might amble by; then again, a thirty-million-dollar craft could. The channel passed exquisite real estate, a sample of what lurked along the Intracoastal; this was a place of unreal estate. The channel went past the beach and a nifty state park, spots where people watched the ships pass. And it skirted by several high-rise buildings I called the Party Towers. 

When my wife and I sailed from here, our vessel blasted its horn three times to signal its departure. On the exposed decks, this sound was ear-splitting; it cleared our sinuses. Multiply this signal by the number of ships leaving Port Everglades on a busy day, and it was a miracle the walls of Jericho didn’t fall again. 

Passengers looked for spots on the upper decks to take the best photos. The port side was popular for viewing Intracoastal and beach scenery while sailing through the channel. Other folks preferred to get locations near the on-deck bars, pools, and whirlpools. 

I preferred to be along the port side rail to overlook the Intracoastal and get a fantastic view of the Party Towers, those high-rise residential buildings that faced the channel. For me, they were a special part of this port. 

A sailing cruise ship casts a spell that captured the imagination. Whenever people saw one go by, an urge to greet it overtook them. New Yorkers went to Manhattan’s West Side to watch the great ships sail in the olden days, as fireboats sent geyser-like sprays up from the harbor to salute the vessels. More recently, people lined up along many shores to honk car horns and wave with fervor at folks ten decks up on a water-borne behemoth. 

Fort Lauderdale’s Party Towers added more to ship gawking from both land and ship. Their partygoers waved flags and banners or draped them over the balconies for passengers to see when leaving. Their partiers blew horns as a saluting band and rang a cowbell or two. My favorite display at the Towers was a set of two giant white hands rigged to wave back and forth, a colossal metronome to say hello and goodbye. The people in these buildings kept busy. With so many ships passing, the residents celebrated often. 

I have seen onlookers wave and honk from Port Canaveral to Venice (Italy). I heard trucks honk air horns to greet my ship passing under Tampa Bay’s Sunshine Skyway Bridge, and a symphony of SUVs, pickup trucks, and plain old cars honk hello from the banks of Port Canaveral. When my wife and I discovered the Port Canaveral channel from the beach, we saw a giant, theme-park-flavored cruise ship gliding past the sand, akin to a huge dune buggy. We ran over and waved to the passengers as they headed out. The urge to greet a ship was irresistible. 

While the port-side scenery looked impressive in Port Everglades or Miami, this view was downright dowdy in Tampa. We saw the city’s downtown district along with the shoreline condos and parks from starboard. But we got a spectacular view of fuel storage tanks, dry docks, and landfills from port. Heading to the Gulf of Mexico, our ships reached Tampa’s scenic highlights farther out in Tampa Bay. With luck, dolphins might play in the waters there. Around two hours after departure, the cruises passed under the graceful Sunshine Skyway Bridge. This cable-stayed bridge replaced an old cantilever span after a tragedy here. Years ago, part of the old bridge collapsed when a freighter hit it in a fog. The flashy new vessels can’t fit under the current crossing, so they didn’t sail from Tampa. After the Skyway, our ships passed Fort De Soto off starboard and a quaint lighthouse off port. Once beyond this point, we entered the gulf’s open waters. 

Port Canaveral didn’t offer a good or bad side. The starboard view was industrial until the ship passed the park and beach at the channel’s end; the greeters gathered there. From the port side, we glimpsed NASA’s old Vertical Assembly Building at Cape Canaveral. The space agency assembled the moon-shot rockets in this historic facility. It was distant, though, and the rest of the scenery was plain. Port Canaveral’s sights weren’t exciting. 

I sailed away from European homeports, too. But those tales wait for another day.

 THE CREW 

Today’s cruise ships bristled with technology. The bridge had advanced electronics. Restaurants and entertainments surpassed what someone could think of in the Queen Mary’s days. But the ships remained labor-intensive, and you will never see a robot vessel. A crew always will be on board. 

I distilled the crew into four groups: bridge officers and customer service personnel; direct service people, including cabin, food service, bar, store, pool, and casino crew; entertainment staff, including performers and excursion folks; and maintenance staff. Each group had three vital functions: keep the ship afloat, keep the passengers happy, and keep the company profitable. Crew members signed a contract to work for a set time. In this respect, things hadn’t changed since the days of the Pequot and Moby Dick. 

The captain set the tone for his ship and crew. Captains worked their way up through the maritime service ranks and received the pay and benefits suitable for their responsibilities. I expected to find serious, no-nonsense people in this position, given their burdens. But I found a variety of personalities among the captains I encountered. Many had that expected straitlaced image. Yet, at the welcome aboard party on one ship, the captain dressed in casual black garb, grabbed a microphone, and sang a great rendition of “Every Breath You Take” by The Police. “American Idol” on the high seas. 

The bridge officers struck me as the most aloof and inscrutable of the crew. During passenger appreciation parties, they lined up as a gauntlet for people to pass by and admire. The officers dressed up in their formal regalia. They resembled animated wax museum figures. Sometimes, I wanted to find the hole in their backs where the key wound them up. I didn’t see them as warm and fuzzy. 

I further subdivide service personnel by whether they served or cleaned, or worked with passengers at a desk. Passengers had the most contact with cabin stewards and table servers. These people worked hard. They signed contracts to work long hours without formal days off. Servers may have helped in the dining room’s late seating and worked in the buffet breakfast the next day. Cabin stewards could have entire corridors of rooms to clean; they may have had assistants, but most worked alone. They needed to be pleasant and tolerate the passengers’ quirks and peculiarities—and several passengers could be very quirky. 

Outside the United States, cruise passengers were of many nationalities and spoke many languages. Cabin stewards and servers had to communicate on this floating Tower of Babel; it impressed me how well they did. Yeah, there were errors, such as asking for coconut rum punch and getting rum and coke. But, in this international game of telephone, the players often managed to get the message correct. 

Customer service personnel sometimes stayed up late at night thinking of ways to frustrate me. When my cabin phone didn’t work on one cruise, I needed three trips to the guest relations desk to fix it. It turned out that a defective motherboard knocked out phone service to the entire deck corridor. Maintenance had to get a part in the next port to repair the system. Customer service could have explained the problem to me better. But, for our inconvenience, my wife and I received a discount certificate for a future cruise—not shabby compensation for being unable to get a wake-up call. 

My most annoying encounter with an obstreperous customer service agent happened when I battled one over a computer that couldn’t spell. My wife and I found our last name spelled wrong every time we made a transaction on the ship, though our key cards had the correct spelling of our names. When I went to the front desk to fix the problem, the agent made it worse by issuing us new cards with our names spelled wrong. I explained (in increasing volume as my frustration grew) that the originals were correct and the computer was incorrect. The agent demanded to see our passports. I got the documents and showed them; the agent copied the face pages and told me someone else would handle the problem. Wanting to avoid the brig, I restrained the urge to throttle this incompetent and asked for the supervisor. The supervisor, without hesitation, corrected our names in the computer and issued new key cards. A lesson here: move any problems with customer service to a higher plane for resolution. The first-line agents aren’t always the sharpest tacks. 

Note: Make sure any copy of your passport face page is destroyed when no longer needed, or take possession of it yourself. A duplicate in the wrong hands is a fast-track to identity theft. But have a copy in a secure spot if something happens to your passport. 

Booking a future cruise onboard has befuddled me. Every ship promoted reserving future cruises while enjoying the current one. They had tons of incentives to get passengers to plunk down a deposit: shipboard credit, half-off for the second passenger, getting a day or two free, enjoying a super-sized beverage package on the house, etc. What perplexed me is not the myriad of convoluted come-ons. What baffled me is when the agent didn’t make the correct reservations. The folks staffing these desks should know what they are doing. 

The activities staff had the most chances to share their personalities with passengers since they worked with them. I didn’t meet grouchy curs among these people; this position was self-selecting and weeded out grumps—except for the excursion coordinators I met on one cruise. My wife and I encountered one who, not wishing to bother with questions, gave us a dismissive hand wave and said: “Go sit down over there.” I understood that message. I don’t think well of that cruise line following that trip. 

The activities folks were omnipresent on the ship. They might lead aerobics and Zumba on the upper deck in the morning; later, they were in the theater or lounge running bingo. And even later, they were in the atrium or promenade, hosting contests, challenges, or that 70s party. Besides cabin attendants and dining room staff, passengers were most likely to know these crew members by their first names. 

A group always out of sight was the kitchen staff. Their glory came when they paraded around the dining room patrons akin to so many gladiators. Those about to cook salute you. 

The entertainers were more mysterious crew members. By day they often rehearsed; of course, at night, they worked. So, they mingled very little. I saw a few performers on shore leave in Grand Cayman once. They boarded the same tender as my wife and me, and I overheard their conversations. I managed a brief glimpse into their lives. 

The Broadway shows on today’s largest ships had productions and performers who could be on The Great White Way. I was astounded at the talent the cruise lines assembled for the musicals. These performers were not the cast-offs and near-misses the old ships featured. During the intermission of Cats, a few cast members invited the audience to the stage to take photos with them. Try doing that on Broadway! However, at intermission, half the audience walked out of the theater and didn’t return. Such a sad lack of respect for such outstanding performers. Those walk-outs might have stayed if they paid $150–$200 a ticket, as they might on Broadway! 

The maintenance workers stayed distant. Unless they worked on a cabin problem, such as uncooperative toilets or phones, their interaction with passengers often was a courteous smile and greeting. The ones I saw were from various countries. I wonder how their lives were; they reminded me of the crewmen from tales such as Moby Dick and The Secret Sharer. Surrounded by the vessel’s luxurious environment for the passengers, the maintenance crew worked hard to keep that bubble from crashing. 

Sometimes, they turned up when not expected. I was lounging in bed once in a partially obstructed-view cabin, somewhat undressed, when I suddenly noticed two crew members working on the lifeboat rigging outside the window. Another time, while I was eating in the buffet, an employee tiptoed over a catwalk outside and cleaned the window next to me, affording the worker a splendid view of me chewing. Well, ships need maintenance. 

Ships celebrated the diversity of their crew. Crew members marched in parades and showed their national flag. A few vessels had talent shows where the employees performed songs and dances from their countries. On one cruise line, dining room staff sang a little ditty from Indonesia to passengers celebrating birthdays. As a famous vocal from the New York World’s Fair and a Florida theme park reminds us, the world is small. 

The cruise industry’s men and women worked hard. They served a clientele with many languages, customs, and expectations. These staff members formed a diverse world that made great memories for the passengers; few workplaces worked so well together. And in most workplaces, staff didn’t sing you a happy birthday song in Indonesian.

 PORTS AND TOURS 

Only the legendary Flying Dutchman didn’t bump into land. Ships docked somewhere for passengers to go forth and spend (with care) even during the coronavirus era. Here in exotic lands (Key West?), they explored foreign sights, savored foreign flavors (such as the McDonald’s in Venice), and shopped, of course. Whether they had Maya pyramids to climb, Roman ruins to clamber around, sandy beaches to swim or dive in, or stores where to hunt bargains, the ports beckoned tourists to spend cash or swipe plastic. Money was a multi-lingual greeting in this way. 

Ships were on a schedule. They needed to make distant shores on time. Sometimes, they pushed the pedal to the metal and sailed all out to reach a far destination. Nautical crafts measured speed by knots. One knot equaled 1.15 miles (1.85 kilometers) per hour. Cruise ships at full throttle could do twenty-two or twenty-three knots, equal to twenty-five–twenty-six mph. As a vessel travels faster, passengers were more likely to notice its motion if the sea was choppy. When ships hustled to make up time, the hour arrived for seasickness pills. 

Sometimes the ship could see the next port without binoculars. Then it crawled, akin to an aquatic snail, to its next destination, doing six–eight knots (seven–ten mph). Passengers may not have sensed they were moving. 

The itinerary could change. Different factors might cause a ship to cancel a port of call before the cruise or during it. One was the weather. If wind made seas rough in a tender port, safety issues could prevent tenders from operating. Winds might make approaching a pier treacherous for ships. And tropical storms or hurricanes could blow away a whole port, as happened in the Caribbean summer of 2017. It may be the age of satellites, but the weather still ruled the seas. 

A less common but still potent reason itineraries could change was political instability. A terrorist incident, or a coup, had the cruise lines rerouting their ships before they ordered champagne for the sail-away parties. I went to Santorini, Greece, and Kusadasi, Turkey (gateway to Ephesus), instead of Istanbul, because of two terrorist bombings. The cruise line rerouted the ship a few months before the trip. The switch disappointed me; I was looking forward to a planned overnight stay in Istanbul. Not that I suffered by seeing beautiful Santorini and the fascinating ruins of Ephesus (although Ephesus aggravated my “Oh no, not another Roman ruin” affliction). But I had my heart set on dinner while sailing past the Golden Horn. And I wanted to see the splendor of the Blue Mosque and Emperor Justinian’s Hagia Sophia. But I enjoy staying in one piece with the least risk, too. A few weeks after this trip came a coup attempt in Turkey. Then the cruise lines stopped going even to Kusadasi and Ephesus. Timing is everything. Who knows when I will sail to Istanbul? 

In came the coronavirus pandemic. My wife and I booked a cruise to sail through the Greek Islands and stay overnight in Istanbul. I looked forward to my dinner sailing past the Golden Horn. The virus killed that cruise. Who knows when I will sail to Istanbul? 

Shore excursions represented the mass marketing of entire countries and cultures; often, the mass exploitation of the same, and sometimes, the tours threatened to destroy the product they sold. Prime examples of the latter were Venice and the Cinque Terre in Italy, the Acropolis in Athens, and the holy sites near Jerusalem and Bethlehem. The throngs from both land and sea tours overwhelmed these places. But to prosper, these lands required tourists to visit; they are hurting in the virus’ wake. Many a dancer prances to the tune of a cash register ringing. 

A perpetual argument flared over whether to take local guides and taxi drivers to see the sights or spend big bucks on ship-sponsored tours. Tours the ships sold were pricey; the cruise line and the tour operator split the revenue. But the cruise tours offered protections you lost if you went on your own. Such benefits included accident coverage (see the part in the Caribbean chapter on my wife tripping in Martinique) or having the ship wait for you if you returned late (see the section in the Panama Canal cruise on returning late in Costa Maya). 

We will see later that coronavirus has rendered this argument moot for now. 

Sometimes the tour had a separate guide and driver, and sometimes only a bus driver narrating while driving. The latter two-for-one eliminated doubts on how to tip the dynamic duo. My wife and I gave the bus driver half of what we tipped the tour guide, rounding off as necessary to avoid giving change. We didn’t give a solo tour guide-driver any extra for double duty. We don’t claim our practice is a formal guideline. 

The tour guides varied in quality from country to country, region to region. Guides today must be well educated, steeped in knowledge of their country’s culture and the sights of interest, and speak at least one language other than their mother tongue. But strong accents could make them challenging to understand when speaking English. One guide’s English was so poor I could fathom only phrases and words and had to piece together the narrative. Another one was fine until we had lunch with wine. After lunch, the English skills declined; a bit of wine, I guess. The guide sang with marked enthusiasm on the bus, however. 

Excursions trended towards covering as much geography from the port as possible. Tours used to cover the vicinity where the ships docked or whatever sights passengers could see within a few hours’ drive on a bus. Tours then formed brief vacations themselves. Fly from the port in Guatemala to visit Tikal’s Maya site for a mere $694 per person? Go from Italy’s Mediterranean coast to tour Florence, hop a train to Venice for a peek, and return the same day? Or bus three hours to Paris from Le Havre in Normandy, drive around sightseeing, and get off to take Eiffel Tower photos? Then, pile into a Seine riverboat for a cruise and a three-course lunch, stroll the Champs-Élysées thirty minutes for souvenirs, and trek three hours back to port? (This was still the same day, remember.) These extended excursions became traveling gold mines. I figured the Paris excursion brought around $40,000 to the ship and operator from eighty attendees, including my wife and me. Mass market, mass profits. 

Excursion logistics could be challenging. The far-flung trips herded tourists into different transportation modes. The cross-Italy tour to Florence and Venice piled everyone onto buses, trains, and a boat cruise on the Grand Canal in Venice. It took coordinating. My wife and I took a “See-the Amalfi-Coast-in-Bulk” tour that ferried us from Naples to Capri, went up the funicular to see the city, then sent us to Sorrento for lunch, drove us to tour Pompeii, and returned us to Naples (in one day). It took the choreography of a ballet. 

The excursions’ revenue power was so mighty that ships had specific staff to sell the tours and take the complaints following them. Onboard, a dedicated TV channel advertised the experiences, and brochures and media screen ads displayed the trips. Passengers could buy tours from ship websites weeks before boarding. Buying in advance offered a discount that added up. My wife and I spent around $2,000 on excursions during a twelve-day British Isles cruise, and if not for advance sale discounts, the tab would have been much more. 

Most places didn’t require us to take our passports with us, but exceptions existed. Future cruisers, my advice is to read the instructions when booking the tour and listen to the coordinators. Often, a driver’s license is enough ID. Most ships are adopting electronic identification, but if your vessel still issues a key card, you will need it to leave and return at ports. REMEMBER YOUR TOUR TICKETS! 

One more thing—don’t quarrel over seats. On a Paris tour, I saw a ridiculous fight over bus seats that embarrassed every mature adult present. If you go with family or friends, it won’t be the planet’s end if you don’t sit together briefly. What matters is you board the same bus. 

NORTH TO ALASKA 

From my childhood, I remember a song that spoke of Alaska. I believe it was popular the year the territory became a state. The refrain roughly said to go north to Alaska because a rush was happening. Those are the only words I remember. 

Truer words there aren’t. The big gold rush wasn’t in the Klondike (which isn’t in Alaska) in the 19th Century. It began in the late 20th Century and continues to burgeon today. It isn’t characterized by grizzled prospectors in mukluks, panning streams to find nuggets. The gold is floating offshore, on enormous cruise ships, and in their associated land tours. 

Note: COVID-19 choked off this gold seam in Alaska’s economy. While the ships’ absence helped the environment, Alaskan purses and town budgets felt the strain from the lack of visitors because of the cruise ban. Politicians wanted the big ships back, while environmentalists were glad to see them gone. As Sonny and Cher might put it, the beat continued. Politicians to the rescue! The Federal Government suspended a law making ships without American crews stop in a foreign port after going to American locales. The cruises go back to the Last Frontier, full of vaccinated tourists flush with spending money! 

Several years ago, I went to work one day in May wearing a tuxedo. Why did I do this? Because on this day, I attended my retirement party and signed out. The American Dream included gaining a wonderful wife, a good job, and a terrific house at one end and retirement at the other. I had arrived at that other bookend on the shelf. 

To celebrate this milestone, my wife and I booked an Alaskan cruise and land tour. We planned to travel through the biggest state’s expanse for one week, followed by one week cruising the Inside Passage along Alaska’s southern coast. We knew what awaited us: breathtaking scenery, wildlife, and a way of life recalling the past’s frontier conditions. What a terrific way to break free from the working world and boldly enter retirement living! 

So, a few days after I bid farewell to my ID badge, desk, and computer terminal, we were on a plane heading towards Fairbanks to start the land part of our great escapade. But, we had to catch a connecting flight in Denver ten hours after arriving there. We had a long day ahead. 

At Denver’s airport, we were not adventurous enough to leave and travel into the city. Upon returning, we would need to go through security again. We stayed at the gate for the layover’s duration. 

I started a project. I got through school literature classes by reading the classics’ summary notes (as most of the student body did). Retirement brought an opportunity; I figured I could now read these books. So, I bought a copy of Moby Dick at an airport store. The layover gave me plenty of time to begin the tale of the white whale. 

The flight to Fairbanks was not routine. A passenger passed out in the aisle, and the crew declared a medical emergency. We did not divert to another airport; when we landed in Fairbanks, an ambulance met the plane to transport this person to a hospital. The incident reminded us medical emergencies are not restricted to the bounding sea. 

We confronted a phenomenon odd to us upon landing in Fairbanks late on a summer night. Days are long this time of year. We landed around 1:00 AM (0100 on the 24-hour clock). It was still light enough to read signs in the distance. Fairbanks was just shy of having Midnight Sun. It didn’t get dark for another hour. The night was around four hours long. 

What can I say for a brief encounter with Fairbanks? It is likely the northernmost Alaska population center people will visit; beyond it exists a true frontier. Our tour took us to two key sites of interest: a retired gold dredge and a cruise down the Cheney River. 

The gold dredge was a fascinating piece of history. It wasn’t that old; it went back to the 1930s. A narrow-gauge railroad ride took us from the parking lot to the dredge; along the way, animated exhibits demonstrated the panning and mining of gold in the past. Oh, and a guy on the train played guitar and sang this song called “North to Alaska.” 

At the dredge, we learned the state had outlawed this equipment; its use caused substantial damage to the environment. Workers used high-pressure hoses to wash away the earth until they exposed bare gravel. Then the dredge scooped up the stone and processed it for gold, using toxic chemicals to separate the precious metal from the crushed rock. The giant machine left behind a wasteland of rubble. 

We panned for gold from water troughs here, learning the techniques prospectors used to extract wealth from the water for more than a century. Of course, the troughs we worked had warm water and had been “salted,” laced with gold flecks. The teacher wore jewelry made from gold nuggets panned in the wild and worth maybe a few thousand dollars. Panning was fun. My wife got enough gold flakes to put inside a locket she bought in the gift shop (there is always a gift shop). But becoming a panner didn’t look promising as a second career. 

After our bout of gold fever, the buses took us to an encounter with the Alaska Pipeline. It brings oil from Alaska’s remote North Slope to the port of Valdez for shipment. Controversy raged during its construction. Many environmentalists feared oil might spill into the wilderness. Many had concerns the project could interfere with migrating wildlife and cause damage to the permafrost. But it has coexisted for decades with the environment. The pipeline runs above ground in places, and we went to a spot with an information center. Here, we walked beneath the pipeline and touched its bottom (a photo op of touching a future gas purchase). 

The information center told how the project crossed tundra, rivers, and mountains. Where the pipe crosses the surface, special footings stop the oil’s heat from melting the permafrost. 

Special pipeline feet may have protected the permafrost, but a drive along the roads in the northern part of Alaska revealed an indisputable fact. We saw trees that listed and poles not perpendicular to the ground. They were losing their footing because the permafrost was thawing. The climate was in flux; Alaska was melting. Regardless if humans were the cause, warmer temperatures wreaked changes in the Alaskan landscape. We will visit more evidence of this change later. 

The next leg of our Fairbanks visit was a cruise on the Cheney River. We boarded a paddle wheeler and steamed down the waterway on a well-choreographed sailing. During our trip, people on the river banks connected to the boat’s PA system via remote mikes and gave us presentations. A pilot landed a plane on the river, showing a common form of Alaskan transportation. And we saw reindeer run “wild”—right on cue, courtesy of Athabasca Indians setting the animals into motion. The Indians showed how they caught and preserved fish, too. 

Our cruise destination was a re-creation of an Athabasca Indian campsite. Here, we saw more demonstrations of how the Athabascans built lodging, stored food, and made clothing. A pen held the “wild” reindeer for suitable photo ops. And what a scenic location this was! The river joined here with a larger, “braided” waterway with multiple channels and gravel bars between them. In the distance were vast plains, and past the plains, mountains. The one motif that Alaskan scenery kept repeating was vastness and solitude; beyond where we were was no human touch, only the wind, water, plants, and animals living with these forces. Alaska will humble your senses if you allow it. 

Our sojourn in Fairbanks over, we rode down the highway to Denali National Park. The bus first stopped in Nenana, on the banks of the Tanana River. Though it was home to the last bridge completed on the Alaska Railroad, Nenana was famous in Alaska for a quirky local event. Alaskan winters are long. When we visited, the state experienced the latest thaw on the river’s records despite climate change, and ice still choked the Tanana River. The town ran an annual lottery, the Nenana Ice Classic. Pick the date when the river ice broke up, and you won the jackpot. How did the lottery determine the breakup? Officials mounted a tripod on the ice and attached a cable from a clock tower on the shore. When the tripod fell because of the thawing ice, it tripped the clock, and an alarm sounded. Those holding tickets with that date won. 

This lottery was statewide, and the jackpot could reach around $250,000 or higher. But the lottery sold tickets only in Alaska. It was a long haul to a store or newsstand for folks in the Lower Forty-Eight to buy one. 

After Nenana, we went on to Denali National Park. Once known as Mt. McKinley National Park, this big wilderness is not the largest national park in the U.S. But it is one of the most accessible since visitors can go there by car, bus, or train. 

The Athabascans called the mountain Denali. Politics caused the name change. The year 1896 saw a presidential election. William McKinley supported the gold standard for U.S. money; his opponent, William Jennings Bryan, did not (look up his “Cross of Gold” speech). An Alaskan prospector who backed the gold standard (prospectors looked for gold) began the movement to rename Denali for McKinley during the campaign. The Federal Government changed the name in 1917. But William McKinley had no personal connection to the mountain. 

President McKinley came from Ohio. When the state of Alaska proposed changing the name again, Ohio politicians objected. But the spirit of the mountain won, and Denali is now its name and the park’s name. However, the mountain spirit could stretch out only so far. The name of the settlement at the park entrance remains Mt. McKinley. 

Since we stayed at a lodge near the park entrance, we took advantage of nearby hiking. Our trip brought us here in late May, bordering on early June. Alaska has a late summer, or should we say an extended winter that’s milder at the end? There were still around six–ten inches of snow on the ground. We had trekked through such snow in our New York days, so we ventured forth onto a trail into the Alaskan woods. 

We trekked to a stream and reached a bridge where the Alaska Railroad crossed. The view was scenic, and we took requisite pictures. We ran into other hikers. The sense of vast solitude did not apply to this part of Alaska. 

During our hike, we came across moose scat on the trail. You can’t speak of Alaska without discussing moose. First, the creature is Alaska’s state land mammal. Second, you want to see moose scat on the trail, not the moose. Bullwinkle aside, these are dangerous animals. They will charge you. They can maim and kill. Females with calves are especially dangerous. If you meet a moose, the general advice is not to run; it is faster. Put a big tree between the two of you. Moose are clumsy and can’t maneuver around obstacles. Just hope the moose doesn’t bowl the tree over. Full-grown, a male can weigh one and a half tons.  

The safest way to photograph moose is from a distance. Give them plenty of space, and don’t spook them. We saw many magnificent males with impressive racks and plainer females. We caught a memorable sight from the bus while heading towards Denali; two moose chomping on a tree as if they were sharing an appetizer. When we saw calves, they stayed close by their mothers. In fact, at one lodge where we stayed, a mother and calf lounged in the trees next to one of the walking paths. Lodge staff warned us not to walk off that path; the moose tolerated passersby but not anybody approaching her. 

We took the short bus ride on the park road and only scratched the surface of this expanse. We traveled to a vista point across a river, seeing moose and birds but no grizzly bears; they frequented areas by the road further inside the park. The bus ride to reach those points needed a full day, and we had plans for more hiking. 

What we saw on the bus ride was the tundra sweeping to the horizon. Beyond it was the mountain. Denali plays peekaboo with tourists. Often it’s shy, so shy that around 70% of tourists don’t see it. Denali is massive. The tallest mountain in North America, it makes its weather; clouds often obscure it. On this day, our guide told us how lucky we were to see it. From our position, it resembled a small, distant bump; we were far from it. 

But later in the trip, we discovered our luck ranneth over. At our next stop, we were fortunate to see it every day. We grew tired of photographing it. 

I will say essential equipment for Alaska includes not just a warm jacket, waterproof boots, and a good camera, but a decent pair of binoculars, too. They are the best means of seeing scenery and wildlife that stay distant. Don’t leave home without them (those of you who remember that line are ready for a retirement trip, too). 

At Mt. McKinley, the train station for Denali National Park, we bade farewell to the tour bus and boarded the coach on our Alaska Railroad train. The Alaska Railroad has a storied history and helped develop Anchorage, Fairbanks, and points in between. The Federal Government built it and turned control over to the State of Alaska a few decades ago. Thus, the railway is publicly owned. It passes places where no roads exist; these rails are the sole means of transportation for folks living there. This railroad is the last in America permitting passengers to flag down a train to climb aboard (a “whistle-stop”). Alaska is the final frontier. 

We headed towards Whittier, where our cruise ship awaited us. On the way, we stopped to stay in the town of Talkeetna. Here, we had the chance to get acquainted with the consummate Alaskan sport of dog sledding. We visited a kennel and met a few dogs, along with an Iditarod competitor (the Iditarod is the classic Alaskan sled race). He and his staff explained the competition: its origin to commemorate the effort to bring a vaccine to a far northern town in an epidemic, how the race works, the training and preparation for it, and the lowdown on the dogs.  

Contrary to popular belief, they are mutts, not pedigrees, bred for strength and endurance, not looks. The training was an involved process. So was getting financial sponsorship to enter the Iditarod. The race itself had faced logistical challenges in recent years; a hurdle at Anchorage’s starting point had been a lack of snow. Climate change, anyone? Animal rights groups voiced concerns the dogs faced too much stress and that racers mistreated them. 

Our visit’s highlight was a sled ride pulled by the dogs; well, at least a simulation of a sled ride. First, this was summer, and there was no snow along the kennel’s tracks. Second, we were in a modified jeep hitched to the dogs. The dogs train this way during the warm weather; they pull the jeep with the engine resistance adjusted to mimic a sled with a rider and gear. 

The dogs love to run. They yelp and bark for a chance to run. Picture if Santa had a penchant for dogs instead of reindeer. Instead of “On Dasher, Prancer, Donner, and Vixen….” It could have been “On Rover, Lassie, Lucky, and Fluffy….” 

We could see the Phantom Mountain from our lodge in Talkeetna as if it were in our backyard. Denali was vogueing as if it was a foppish model. We were in the lucky 30% of tourists who see the massif. It flashed us over and over to make sure we didn’t miss it. 

Talkeetna to the ship in Whittier was a straight shot. Now, the Alaska Railroad on this stretch wound past portions of the most inspiring scenery you can gaze at. But there were no more stops. We rolled through Anchorage, seeing its suburbs and downtown district from the cars as we passed. Anchorage resembled any medium-sized city that had stupendous mountains in the background. The Alaskan scenery didn’t stop with urbanization. 

After Anchorage, the tracks ran along the Kenai Peninsula’s shoreline. It’s still possible to see evidence of the huge 1964 Alaska earthquake here. Parts of the shore dropped several feet, disrupting sections of the railroad. A temblor this big will cause more damage now since population growth fed a construction boom in this part of the state. 

The railroad skirted astride Turnagain Arm, a bay along the Kenai Peninsula. The shape of the bay causes a phenomenon akin to the tides in Canada’s Bay of Fundy, though not as extreme. We could see the high tide roll across the mudflats as it came in; the bay resembled a filling bathtub. I heard surfers like to ride the incoming wave. Hang ten! 

I heard the mudflats at low tide could be deadly. They can trap the unwary who venture onto them and are unprepared for the incoming deluge; the sticky mud has caught people, and they have drowned. Alaska is a land that will bite if you don’t respect it. 

The train passed by coastal mountains, where we glimpsed a herd of mountain goats. On an Alaskan trip, keep an inventory of the wildlife species you spot. At the journey’s end, it will amaze you how long the list is. 

Before entering Whittier, the port where our ship waited, we encountered something exclusively Alaskan—a tunnel shared by the railroad and a highway. Vehicles and trains took turns traversing the tunnel, the only land access into the town. Cars, trucks, and buses on both sides waited for the green light to pass; after they went, the train made its passage. I pictured trying to use this system in the Lincoln Tunnel in New York. Alaska is unique. 

We burst through the darkness and entered Whittier, and our ship was in the port. The land tour was over, and we were starting our cruise along Alaska’s coast. Luckily, the weather was fine. One week before, a blizzard blanketed Whittier in snow so intense the passengers couldn’t see the ship from the train where it stopped; this distance was around the length of an American football field (300 yards, around 100 meters). 

Whittier itself requires mention. It was born in World War II from necessity; the bay here is ice-free in winter, and the U.S. needed a port in Alaska to transport military supplies. The military built a fourteen-story building here, now called Begich Towers. Most of Whittier’s population of 220 people lived in this building. You’ve heard of one-horse towns; this was a one-building town. 

The 1964 earthquake hit Whittier hard; it hit the town with a tsunami forty-three feet (thirteen meters) high. Alaska is a land of glaciers, snow, and tundra. We may forget Alaska has active tectonics and is a land of earthquakes and volcanic eruptions, too. 

A prettier port is hard to find. Surrounded by snow-covered mountains, Whittier was an alpine setting by the sea. Still, I was glad I wasn’t dealing with an alpine blizzard raging in these environs, as the passengers did the previous week. 

So, we went out to sea. Following the prevailing advice for an Alaskan cruise, we booked a balcony cabin. Travel agents say the balcony’s advantages are privacy (it allows seeing the sights without fighting the crowd on deck for rail space) and comfort (it enables ducking in the cabin to warm up when chilled by the frigid Alaskan air). We will revisit this advice later. 

The balcony makes it easier to spot sea life on your side of the ship. The Alaskan waters teem with sea otters, seals, and whales; something may swim alongside at any moment. Here is another reason to have decent binoculars in Alaska; spend the money on a pair. 

The first place on the itinerary was Glacier Bay National Park. It wasn’t a port of call for us; no hiking or dog sledding opportunities here. The ship did scenic cruising around the bay. Park rangers got on board to give us a tour of the surroundings. And what spectacular scenes surrounded us here. 

Remember the advice on having the balcony cabin to duck inside for shelter from the arctic environs? Our guides were in shirtsleeves and commented this was the first pleasant weather they had seen. The temperature was around seventy degrees (twenty-six degrees Celsius). From the balcony, we couldn’t hear everything the rangers were saying. So, guess where we headed? We have a delightful picture of ourselves on deck, with Glacier Bay scenery as the backdrop. 

Glacier Bay is just as it sounds—a body of water home to several glaciers. Before coming to the frozen rivers, the ship passed through water filled with slushy ice. Further in, the slush became small icebergs (small being the operative word; no one wanted a Titanic thrill ride here). Then came sizeable ice islands near the glaciers’ feet, and the ship kept a respectful distance here. Now we saw the force that overcomes mountains and valleys—nature’s bulldozer. Only lava packs a punch surpassing ice in reshaping the landscape; lava can create land. 

The Great Pacific Glacier, the Margerie Glacier, and the Lamplugh Glacier converged near where ships cruise in Glacier Bay. With their immense expanses of ice across the edge of the water, these tidewater glaciers were epic sights. They aren’t related to the giants from the last Great Ice Age. Those old ones spread further globally, leaving boulders called erratics around the world and grooves in rocks I saw as a kid in New York’s Central Park. I found it humbling to see how Glacier Bay’s glaciers dwarfed the ships seen against their bulk, though. 

The Great Pacific Glacier resided at the end of the bay. As it retreated, it kept changing where the bay ended. It was a “dirty glacier.” No, it didn’t tell risqué jokes; the term refers to the debris this glacier carried along as the ice moved. It resembled a gargantuan version of a northern city street lined with piled, dirty ice a week after a snowstorm. This glacier was international; it crossed the Canadian border into Alaska at Glacier Bay. But as it continues to pull back, it will one day become a sole Canadian property. A warming planet’s implications go across international boundaries. 

The Margerie Glacier often “calves”; chunks of ice cleave off the toe and fall into the bay, creating slush and icebergs in the water. The iceberg the Titanic rammed? It calved off of a northern glacier into the Atlantic. Ships for centuries have kept watch for these dangerous offspring of ice. 

Resembling a postcard, the Margerie Glacier captivated us with its white cloak. Do you think we pondered this giant in solitude and silence? Well, not in solitude. Another cruise ship and a host of other boats and another accompanied us. We saw the ship we took on our cruise to the Panama Canal, sailing now in very non-tropical waters. Ships get around. 

If you are lucky, you will not study a glacier in silence. Silence means no activity in the ice. As the glacier creeps along, it speaks. Cracks of thunder and loud rumbles roar across the landscape akin to cannon fire—the voice of the ice. 

If you are very lucky, you’ll see a force of nature at work; the ice face will calve. The splash doesn’t always produce a loud noise. But seeing a piece of glacier cascading into the water is thrilling. The larger the chunk, the more thrilling is the sight. We were fortunate to view a big section collapse. Such a moment is worth recording on your phone as a video. 

The shore of Glacier Bay is an outdoor laboratory. Since glacial ice has covered the land for so long, scientists watch life occupy the new territory as the glaciers recede. Hardy pioneer plants aren’t the only life here; Glacier Bay is where we saw our grizzly bear. It was walking along the shore, a big, brown form ambling along the side of the bay. Our guides estimated it might have been over seven feet tall to be so noticeable from the ship. How majestic it looked through the binoculars; how glad we were not to be next to it! 

A good time to discuss bears. Alaska has grizzly bears and black bears. You can’t identify a black bear by color; they can be black or brown. There have even been rare white bears (so-called “spirit bears”). A grizzly has a flatter face plus a hump behind its head. Either way, you don’t mess with a bear, especially a mother with a cub. Although moose show more dangerous behavior, a charging bear is a bigger nightmare for a hiker to see. 

Here, the advice gets easier said than done. Several experts say bears indulge in bluff charges. Unlike moose, who will mow you down, bears, in theory, will charge and stop. The advice is don’t run. DON’T RUN. Bears are faster than you (everything runs faster than humans). They can maneuver around trees. DON’T CLIMB A TREE; bears are better climbers than you hope to become. If you encounter one that rears up, the recommendation is to stand your ground. Raise your hands over your head and make yourself look big. Here I believe an ounce of prevention is worth a ton of bear. Making noise while you hike is supposed to deter bear surprises by letting them know you are around. Deterrent spray is a last resort if one becomes aggressive; we saw it work on humans, but I can’t vouch for its effectiveness against bears. Realize bears are wild animals that don’t see humans as part of their usual food supply. So, they aren’t prone to bother anyone unless provoked. Keep food in airtight containers; their sense of smell rivals bloodhounds. And DO NOT FEED THE BEARS! They aren’t Yogi or Gentle Ben. 

A final word on Glacier Bay. I wonder how it will look in thirty years. The British explorer George Vancouver passed by the mouth of the bay in the 18th Century. The ice stretched to the sea then. How far back into Canada will the Grand Pacific Glacier travel in three decades? Will the glaciers even exist?  

The first port we stopped in was Skagway. More people ate dinner in the ship’s dining room than lived in Skagway; the population was around 800. Narrow railroad tracks ran past where we docked. We’ll see these rails played a vital role in the town’s history. 

Welcome to Gold Rush country. In the 19th Century, Skagway was ground zero for the Klondike gold strike in Canada’s Yukon Territory. The trailhead started here to the goldfields, hundreds of miles away. The prospectors couldn’t just waltz over the border, though; those wishing to cross had to satisfy Canadian authorities that they had a year’s supplies and could survive the harsh conditions. But hundreds streamed into the Yukon, hoping to find the precious yellow metal and strike it rich. A few did; for example, the Nordstrom fortune stemmed from success in the Klondike. But most left empty-handed. The prospectors and miners left a trail of debris across the landscape, including such items as discarded teapots, clothing irons, and hundreds of portable canoes. Today, their path forms the Chilkoot Trail. You can walk in the old-timers’ footsteps and see the relics of their dreams and disappointments (passports needed). 

Others kept their dreams closer to town. They sought their fortune through “mining the miners,” providing supplies to them at whatever price the gold seekers consented to pay. Shovels and pans, clothing, food, shoes and boots, booze and lodging, soap (we will see how soap had a storied role in Skagway’s history)—proprietors sold goods and services. And women provided rest and relaxation in town (this is as delicate as I can phrase it). Entrepreneurs often made more money than most prospectors ever saw. 

Skagway today is a drop-dead gorgeous town, with its business district preserving the handsome buildings of the gold rush days. My wife and I took a vintage bus tour of the town and environs, including the cemetery, as notorious a patch of ground as the state has. Our driver and guide, a woman from town, wore a flower-print dress, a hat with a flower in it, and white gloves. She evoked the era of our bus. She was a bloom in the Alaskan hardscrabble. 

The bus tour had historical roots in its own right. Its predecessor showed President Warren Harding around town in the early 20th Century when he traveled to Alaska. Our guide was proud to show off pictures of President Harding’s visit to Skagway, seeing the sights from an even more vintage bus. 

We could see Mt. Harding from Skagway. The mountain took its name from the former president. Harding died in San Francisco in 1923 after returning from the Alaska trip. Soon after his death, the Teapot Dome scandal tarnished his reputation. It’s not a sign of good fortune to see a president’s name on an Alaskan mountain. Remember, an assassin killed President McKinley, the former namesake for Denali. 

As we drove around, we learned Skagway is not isolated from other North American roads as much of Alaska is. It connects to Dawson in Canada by a highway. We heard the road is for the adventurous, with roller coaster humps and potholes from frost heaves. 

Long after this trip, I viewed videos of the Klondike Highway. It looked smooth and well-kept in the sections I saw. It looked in better condition than New York’s Brooklyn-Queens Expressway forty years ago, when that road had more potholes than pavement. 

Skagway was the Alaskan terminus of the White Pass and Yukon Railway, the narrow-gauge railroad to Dawson. Built to serve the Klondike Gold Rush, the work finished in time to miss the gold’s heyday. But these trains were a gold mine for tourism today as they took passengers along a very scenic route into Canada (passport required). I haven’t ridden it; it is on the list for our next trip to Skagway. The town railway station was picturesque for photo ops, and a photogenic steam engine sat waiting for selfies in a park nearby. 

This railroad served Skagway’s second boom era, too. The town was the headquarters for building part of the Alcan Highway during World War II. Personnel, supplies, and equipment traveled from here by rail to the construction site. The highway construction led to a housing boom in Skagway; our tour guide lived in a home dating from this era. 

Downtown was incredible, with its wooden sidewalk and old-time buildings. Of particular note was the Arctic Brotherhood Hall facade, with around 9,000 pieces of driftwood decorating it—the Alaskan version of siding. But to me, the cemetery stood out. Here, the legend of Soapy Smith loomed larger than life or death. 

Soapy Smith was a character who could be folklore but was real. He was a hustler who didn’t just mine the miners; he robbed them blind. Soapy concocted schemes. He ran a lottery where a few soap bars he sold supposedly contained money inside them (they didn’t; here was the source of his nickname). His cons angered enough folks that people came looking for him. A man named Frank Reid shot Soapy (supposedly in a sensitive spot for men) and became the town hero when Soapy died. Mr. Reid wasn’t an angel himself; he was on the run in Skagway for murdering someone in the Lower Forty-Eight. Anyway, Soapy shot Reid, too, and he died of his wounds. The townspeople buried Reid in the Skagway cemetery. But they buried no-good Soapy in a plot outside its grounds. Over the years, the cemetery expanded; now, Soapy lies within it. Time forgave Soapy if the town didn’t. 

Skagway was a gateway to activities such as visiting a glacier by plane. But view the town or ride the train if you haven’t seen these Alaskan environs before. During our stop, the temperature was in the mid-seventies (around twenty-three degrees Celsius), and as at Glacier Bay, shirtsleeves and shorts ruled the day. The prospectors might have liked this weather as they crossed the Chilkoot Trail looking for gold. 

The capital, Juneau, was next on our itinerary. Juneau was an isolated pocket of civilization, with roads on every side of the metropolitan area finishing at dead ends. The city spread across the Gastineau channel, and a bridge spanned the water to connect the two sides. It was a modern place in a beautiful setting of mountains and sea. A cable car ascended Mt. Roberts, the mountainside above the town. We lacked time to ride it, but it’s on our list for the next visit. 

Here, the weather changed on us; it wasn’t as warm. But the sunshine thrilled Juneau’s residents since Juneau sees much rain, a common issue in Alaska’s panhandle. 

Juneau was built up the hillside. The governor’s impressive mansion on the hill looked over the downtown. Vintage buildings, along with modern ones, filled the downtown district. None was more vintage or renowned than the Red Dog Saloon, a famous bit of Alaskan Gold Rush history. We stopped in to look; memorabilia filled its walls, as in any bar, and tourists filled its seats. 

We stopped at a fish hatchery, which showed our group how it hatched and nurtured salmon for release. I found this tour boring. 

When our bus drove outside of town, we saw our first Alaskan bald eagles. Seeing these birds in the wild should impress the casual observer; they are glorious, whether in flight or showing their profile at rest. I kept thinking of how everyone cranes their necks and charges at bus windows to get photos when spotting them. I’ve seen bald eagles sit on top of telephone poles and dive into the pond outside our townhouse to get fish in Florida. One even swept down in front of my car to get something from the road, nearly causing an accident as distracted drivers gawked and reached for cell phones to take pictures. I don’t take them for granted, though. Every sighting shows we need to protect their habitat so these mighty birds survive. 

When I went to view the Mendenhall Glacier, I again encountered the change time and climate have wrought in Alaska. The glacier was outside Juneau and very accessible. But not as accessible as decades ago. My parents and sister visited this site around forty years before me. My sister, who collects postcards, bought one here; she showed it to me after our Alaska trip. The postcard photo showed the Mendenhall Glacier’s face right at the parking lot, towering over the vintage 1970s cars. 

Fast forward to our 21st Century trip. To reach the Mendenhall Glacier, we walked from the visitor’s center at least a half-mile. We arrived at a viewpoint from where the glacier was visible—in the distance. On its side was a powerful waterfall pouring into the basin below: Nugget Falls. A trail led to these falls, but we lacked the time and couldn’t hike it. 

The glacier is still receding. Visitors can view it with a telescope or binoculars from the visitor’s center now. But one day, it will recede beyond sight from there. 

Juneau had other attractions, including a gold mine tour up on Mt. Roberts and boat excursions in the channel. No matter what you do here, shirtsleeves may yield to a sweater or jacket. With luck, you will see the sun and cheer along with the residents. 

Ketchikan was a town known for its fish. Salmon run in the waters here, and you can stand on the town’s bridges and see the fish swarm below. This town was built on implausible terrain. First, it was on Revillagigedo Island (go ahead, say it ten times fast). Second, the townsite was so hilly that several streets became actual staircases going up the slope. Third, Creek Street was a boardwalk over the water. Ketchikan was not your average American suburb populated with cul-de-sacs. 

When we pulled into Ketchikan, two things were happening. There was a storm brewing. A stiff wind was blowing, whipping up swells and whitecaps in the channel. Not uncommon here, in one of the wettest areas of Alaska. Second, a storm was brewing in my body. I was getting sick and running a fever. But determined not to let a germ come between me and my vacation, I pressed on to tour. 

We booked an excursion on an amphibious vehicle for a land and water tour of Ketchikan. Before we caught the “duck,” we walked around downtown for a while. This place resembled the perfect vision of a frontier theme park. Rough-hewn wooden buildings spread around by the score. Totem poles sprouted up everywhere. Ketchikan Creek meandered through the town, carrying salmon to the sea. At Creek Street was the famous Dolly’s House Museum, a house of ill repute turned into a house of tourist lucre. With so much to ogle, you can fill a whole memory card with pictures in Ketchikan. 

But I had to deal with that perfect storm. A drizzle started, and my head was hot and pounding. Two acetaminophens helped, but my stomach was feeling gale wind warnings, too. Still, we got on the “duck” and began our drive through town. 

When the duck got in the water, we saw the airport ferry bringing passengers to catch their flights. Ketchikan had the only airport in the U.S. accessed by ferry. Years ago, Alaskan Senator Ted Stevens wanted to build a bridge to connect Ketchikan with the airport on Gravina Island (fifty people lived there then). Opponents ridiculed the project for its cost, called it the “Bridge to Nowhere,” and killed it. Having seen what it took to reach the airport, I now think a cheaper bridge or tunnel is a sound idea. 

Ketchikan had a big marina, with many boats moored in it. We learned why; it cost less to live on a boat than to rent in the town. Manhattan meets the Alaskan Panhandle. 

We saw several bald eagles roosting on buildings during our harbor cruise. Our tour guide told us Ketchikan residents considered them pests because of the negative effect their droppings have on the buildings. Too many bald eagles, so they were a pest; it’s a notion I still haven’t embraced. 

My wife and I booked tickets to see the famous Ketchikan lumberjack show after our tour. Two things happened: One, the sprinkle of rain turned into a cold, steady downpour. Two, I felt sick to my core. My wife went to the show; I went back to the ship, got a refund on my show ticket, and headed for medical services. 

The doctor examined me and pronounced I was sick indeed; a bug was circulating on the ship (not norovirus), and I got it. The doctor gave me antibiotics and told me to stay in the cabin for twenty-four hours. My day touring in Ketchikan was over. Thus, I didn’t get to several onshore attractions that caught my eyes, such as Creek Street and the Dolly’s House Museum. Next trip. My wife told me the weather made the lumberjack show unpleasant to sit through; besides, she felt disappointed with it. 

Ketchikan was our last port; the last day was at sea. So, I didn’t miss much while confined to the cabin; if it happens, it may as well be at the cruise’s end. Yet, I found a laugh in getting sick. Following the ship’s protocol, the nurse instructed me to wear an isolation mask when going back to the cabin. After the nurse left, the doctor stated I should ignore the protocol because folks might think I contracted the plague. The doctor didn’t want to give passengers undue concern that a disease was raging onboard. So, I returned to my room maskless but with a chuckle. However, I didn’t realize I got a quick glimpse of the pandemic future with masks. 

The Hazmat Swat Team came to scrub and sanitize the cabin’s surfaces. I sat on the couch as they worked. Fortunately, they didn’t see a need to sanitize me. I enjoyed free room service during my quarantine, which in effect limited my meal choices at lunch and dinner to sandwiches. The weather outside wasn’t inviting, so I didn’t think I missed anything. I used lock-up as an opportunity to pack for our departure the next day. I received several calls from the infirmary staff, asking how I felt. Then the doctor asked me to visit medical services for a follow-up exam; after the exam, the doctor cleared me to leave solitary confinement. 

We pulled into Vancouver, Canada, our port of disembarkation. The terminal was stunning; the roof resembled sails billowing in the wind. My wife had picked up the bug, too. I was running a temperature of a mere 100 degrees (37.8 degrees Celsius). So, neither of us felt optimal for the adventure ahead. The Vancouver ship terminal was chaotic; people jammed every nook and cranny. We booked a transfer tour to see the city sights and then travel to the airport. Once we got our luggage, we couldn’t find anything else. We couldn’t locate the tour bus, nor anyone who knew where we should go. Nor were there any helpful signs. We were not just confused, but sick, in unfamiliar spaces, and pressed for time; was this a conspiracy? But after hunting for a while, we stumbled onto our tour and settled in. 

Vancouver was a beautiful city in a gorgeous mountain and sea setting (sounds familiar, right?). Its skyline was big enough that movies and TV shows have used it to substitute for New York (the mountains in the background didn’t resemble the Palisades, though). The sights were so varied. In downtown was the cauldron that hosted the 2010 Olympic Games’ flame. Electric buses ran throughout the metropolitan districts. Charming places included its quaint Gastown district and Chinatown. Vancouver’s green jewel was Stanley Park, a sylvan expanse bordering the water. Larger than Central Park, it contained forest along with totem poles. 

Vancouver has kept a maritime tradition and resounds every night with the nine o’clock cannon’s roar. An old muzzleloader fires at 9:00 PM (2100 hours), a practice remaining from when its shout helped ships in the harbor set their chronometers. So, don’t be early to bed. 

So, after the tour, our bus left us at the airport to start our long journey home. We had three flights from Vancouver to Florida via San Francisco and Dallas. Meanwhile, I developed the worst case of laryngitis I ever had and lost my voice. Hence, I whispered my way on this Odyssey. San Francisco looked fetching from the air at that late hour. However, it wasn’t fun to be stuck in the airport with the restaurants closed as we waited for the Dallas flight. After getting home, we collapsed into bed for a nap and then went to the local urgent care center for treatment. The medical staff said folks were “rolling off the ships and into their office.” This bug was making the rounds. 

Despite getting sick, we had a grand celebration of my retirement. The unique landscape we saw was changing, though, in undesirable ways. Alaska is a place to see while it still has the magic of calving ice, tundra stretching forever, and white-cloaked mountains holding the sky in their grasp. 

Sources:  Wikipedia
                            Cartwright, Rachel. The Alaska Cruise Companion: A Naturalists Guide to
                                Alaska’s Inside Passage. Korea: Charm Kraft Industries, 2012. 

THE ATLANTIC B & B’S—BERMUDA AND THE BAHAMAS 

Off the U.S. Atlantic Coast were non-Caribbean islands that offered vacations akin to the Caribbean playgrounds. Closer to the mainland U.S., they made shorter cruises possible from the northern ports. From the east coast of Florida, trips to these places resembled a commute. Bermuda and the Bahamas were British in flavor (Bermuda was still a British territory). They spoke English and drove on the left. Since they were stuck in the Atlantic but were so Caribbean-like, I have referred to them as the In-Between Islands. 

Being near the latitude of North Carolina, Bermuda was the world’s most northern coral reef. It did not get snow, but it could get hurricanes. Nevertheless, the beaches were stunning, with the sand color varying from white to pink. Bermuda was a group of islands resembling a fishhook, around 20.54 square miles (53.2 square kilometers). With mopeds and scooters plentiful, visitors didn’t need a rental car to see it end to end. 

The capital, Hamilton, was the principal town and port. In another century and millennium, I saw this island during my first cruise as a young boy. A pastel-pink hotel on a hill above the town, the Bermudiana, then dominated the skyline. On the main street, small cars and trucks drove on the road’s wrong side, joined by bicycles that could change into putt-putting motorbikes. And at the town’s main junction, a policeman stood in a gazebo that resembled a glorified birdcage. He was swathed in white—white helmet, white tunic and pants, and white gloves—and he directed traffic. Hamilton was a small town in a land far from a kid’s home in New York City. 

I remember sites my parents and I toured on the island: the natural pool where I saw giant turtles swimming, the aquarium where I saw more sea denizens, and the cave where we admired the underground formations. We rode on the small bus (on the wrong side of the road) to the other significant port town, St. George’s. I remember old colonial buildings and the facade of an unfinished church there. I liked Bermuda; it had charming sights so different from my world. 

I have seen Bermuda again, though not by cruise. Time can change much. The Bermudiana was gone; so was the policeman in the birdcage. But the pretty pastel houses of Bermuda, with the signature moon gates guarding them and terraced roofs to catch rainwater, still adorned the landscape. The natural pool, the aquarium, the caves, and the unfinished church remained. Mopeds still putt-putted on the roads’ left side. 

Bermuda had much for tourists to do. In fair weather, the beaches offered good sunbathing and swimming, along with snorkeling and diving. Sights included the Gibbs Hill Lighthouse, the Royal Dockyards, and old bastions such as St. Katherine’s Fort and Museum. And hikers could hit the Bermuda Railway’s trail where the tracks once ran. 

While in Hamilton, we saw business people wearing coats, ties, and Bermuda shorts. The dress code here looked more casual than in most cities’ business districts. 

Meanwhile, the Bahamas struck me as islands that should be part of Florida. Freeport, Grand Bahama, was only around ninety miles away. The attractions in Orlando were farther from where I live. Yes, residents in Freeport spoke with Caribbean accents and drove on the left. But Miami struck me as being part of both the Caribbean and Florida. I think borders blurred as the Gulf Stream meandered along. 

I first saw the Bahamas on that far-distant jaunt from New York. After visiting Bermuda, we docked in Nassau. I have described my strongest memories: a dreary fort and a dreary tour guide. The next time I saw the town (on New Providence Island) was when my wife and I treated my sister on a seventieth birthday cruise out of Miami. 

We took one of those older, refurbished ships that cruised the milk runs on the east coast of Florida (the Bahamas were the cruising equivalent of Cozumel, Grand Cayman, and the Costa Maya on Florida’s west coast). The three of us shared an ocean view cabin large enough for one and a half; for a week following the trip, my back punished me for sleeping on the pull-out sofa. But we made it work, and we had a blast. 

This vacation was my first experience sailing out of Miami. As we passed the luxury towers and golden beach below, a woman on deck told me how she and her husband booked this cruise online three days earlier for around $147. They lived in metro Miami. Such was the fortune of living near the Florida ports, having the freedom to surf the web for last-minute deals, and having the fortitude to endure the cabin you got. 

Old ships lacked the bells, whistles, and modern thrills of the newest amusement-park-like vessels; they had compact, central atriums instead of splashy promenades sprawling the ships’ length. But they had a slice of history going to sea with them. Often, their walls had a gallery showing awards and mementos from past voyages. A plaque in this ship’s gallery showed the vessel in its youth had been to Alaska. Another plaque showed it sailing through New York Harbor. That memento displayed a photo I found poignant—the ship below the lower Manhattan skyline, looking towards the Battery. The World Trade Center towers stood in the daylight. The world of its youth was different before its semi-retirement in Florida, shuttling back and forth to the Bahamas. 

On this cruise, we learned how generous a server could be. Ours kept plying us with extra appetizers and desserts. Such generosity was fine on a quick trip but deadly to our wardrobe on a longer one. But during this vacation, our taste buds and bellies had a good time. 

The first port of call was Freeport. Freeport was so near West Palm Beach that boats ferried to it for overnight outings. Why bob around the ocean on a gambling boat when you could lose money on land? 

We went to a swimming resort in Freeport instead of a casino; it had a lower risk to the wallet, and the water was more enjoyable. 

Nassau was our next stop. From the cruise with my parents, I remembered the town as an unpleasant place. This time I saw Nassau as different. The Bahamas were celebrating the anniversary of their independence from Great Britain. Decorations filled the streets. The town had a bustling atmosphere to it. 

Here, we made our casino visit. First, we toured one of the famous mega-resorts, its tall, pink towers surrounded by the theme of a long-lost land in the sea. We saw an ersatz excavation of this lost continent; the mock site actually housed a phenomenal aquarium. Most memorable were the luminescent jellyfish, resembling floating neon signs, and enormous groupers. I’m talking groupers the size of Volkswagen Beetles. And sharks and moray eels flitted around. I think I preferred taking my chances with the sharks over an encounter with those toothy ribbons. 

So, after seeing the fake sunken ruins surrounded by real aquatic life, we then descended on the casino so it could relieve us of extra weight in the form of money. This loss made up for any weight we gained from the extra food our friend, the server, provided us. 

After our time limit of ringing and binging slot machines, we headed back into Nassau town to roam (Sloop John B played in my head). Nassau was a shopper’s paradise; since my wife and sister ate credit cards for breakfast, they headed to the stores. The Straw Market on Bay Street had many vendors under its roof, with decent bargains. I will attest to the bargains since I walked out with a polo shirt and a hat. Emblazoned with a Nassau, Bahamas insignia, that shirt saw many a later cruise and has since retired. But the hat still parades around sometimes, keeping the Florida sun off my head. (Note: Last time I went there, I bought nothing. Tastes and merchandise change.). 

So, this was a short but sweet cruise (literally, as the server kept throwing double desserts at us) through the Bahamas. The glory of cruising as a vacation was the versatility. It could be a celebration, adventure, or break. But it was wonderful to get on the waves and whisk over them somewhere. You didn’t have to fret over traffic or if you can recline your seat. And the food beat any fare sitting on top of an airline tray table. 

In the summer of 2019, Hurricane Dorian walloped the Bahamas. Dorian was the strongest storm on record to hit there. Winds of 185 miles per hour lashed the northern Abacos Islands and Grand Bahama Island, including Freeport, and submerged them in a devastating surge from the ocean. The Bahamas have struggled while trying to get back on their feet. The economy depended on tourists, so, of course, the second storm that hit them battered them hard; coronavirus scathed the islands by halting cruise ship visits and stifling the rebound of tourism. Now that it’s becoming safer to breathe the salt air again, tourists can help by visiting and spending money here. 

Source:  Wikipedia. 

BUFFETS 

To buffet or not buffet: That is the question. Whether tis nobler to bear the spoons and servers of outrageously delicious sauces, or not… The Bard might have penned these words if he lived in this era of maritime feasts fit for the Queen. The buffet’s traditional cornucopia and gluttony were at risk of not returning to the waves since self-service looked as if it could spread the disease as a knife spreads cream cheese on a bagel. Had it withered, I would not mourn its passing. The buffet was a dreadful place. It looked as if the CDC would kill it off. 

Then came the agency’s commandments for the chosen vaccinated and the pagan rest. Those souls with shots may lay hands onto the utensils, serve food unto themselves, and mingle intimately. Those uninitiated could not touch spoons or scoops and must distance themselves to keep the plague from spreading. The buffet was reborn. 

Still, as Shakespeare wrote (and, as most high school students did, I read the cheater’s notes, not the play), “I have come to bury Caesar, not to praise him”—even though the buffet isn’t dead yet. 

Ship buffets brought out the worst in people. I saw plenty of boorish behavior and rudeness. Sometimes, parents didn’t watch their children, and the kids ran amuck. People walked without looking where they were heading, risking many collisions. The buffet wasn’t necessarily a happy place to eat. 

There weren’t guarantees on the food quality either. Caveat eater. During a Mediterranean cruise, I scooped a heaping helping of cottage cheese at breakfast, dug in, and thought I might spit up all over the floor. It tasted around a thousand years old, and I expected carbon dating could have proved it. I reported this swill to a buffet supervisor as a spoiled item. He investigated and told me his findings. He said nothing was wrong with the cottage cheese; it was an English brand cultured for British tastes (the ship sailed from Southampton, where it took on its provisions). Yes, perhaps the world is small, but concerning tastes, it is broad. On another cruise, I kept finding eggshells in the scrambled eggs at breakfast. I didn’t pay a substantial fare to include the extra calcium with my eggs. 

Yet, I ate at buffets where the food was sublime. As with most aspects of sailing, everything varied with the ship. Desserts were very variable. I saw buffets where my plate looked akin to a small bakery since I took so many samples. Then again, I had buffet desserts that were tasteless, rubbery, or plain disappointing. I saw questionable concepts such as chocolate rice pudding (I won’t tell you what it resembled). Sometimes, the fruit wasn’t ripe. No guarantees. A note on coffee. I enjoy drinking decaf. I found the decaf varied in the buffets from surprisingly tasty to downright undrinkable. The quality, or lack of, didn’t correlate with ship rankings; I found horrible decaf coffee on one of the higher-rated cruise lines. 

A word on ship etiquette. Ships frowned on passengers filling personal bottles at the beverage station’s water dispensers. This practice was a health code issue. To circumvent it, I took glasses of water back to my table and poured them into bottles there—and mopped up any spillage with a napkin. Even my manners were questionable sometimes. In the post-pandemic era, passengers who follow this practice might be thrown overboard by the crew. 

The buffet design formula may have been that the available seats equaled 90% of the passengers eating there at the busiest hours on sea days. Before the pandemic, breakfast and lunch were the busiest meals; depending on the layout, the congestion could be worse than a mall parking lot at Christmas. Real estate rules applied. Prime locations were rooms with a view; hence, tables next to windows filled up fast. Seats closest to the food stations went fast, too, since people wanted to walk the shortest distance with plates piled to the ceiling. Competition to sit down was fierce. So, groups and families sent out scouts to reconnoiter the buffet for spots, and upon locating one, they swooped in to occupy it. My wife and I left hats, jackets, or bags at tables to claim space; the same tools worked for deck and pool chairs, plus seats in the theater and bingo. 

Maneuvering plates full of food through an obstacle course of others doing the same thing was an essential buffet technique to master. Remember the scene with the dancing hippos from Fantasia? I think the scene at the buffet was similar. That folks saw so few crashing plates and flying French fries attested to the body’s agility in the face of hunger. 

I saw buffets stop passengers from serving themselves for the first forty-eight hours of the cruise to prevent spreading any gastrointestinal illness. On the other hand, as a former food professional, I saw staff practices on several ships that made my toes curl: filling pans too high with food so the holding temperature may have become too warm; dumping old food from pans on the line into new food; wiping tables with cloths used on other tables without using a sanitizing cleanser, etc. And I always got the dirty silverware or plate that hung around.