Let the good times float

On some since forgotten evening several weeks ago someone informed me that she was going on an upcoming cruise. If I wanted to go, there were probably some rooms left on said voyage of particular note. Several of my like-minded brethren would also be vacationing there.

In principle, I thought yes, I would like to spend a week on a gargantuan, floating casino, as it moseyed between sub-tropical ports. In fact, I had considered, if not fantasized about, just that very thing on many occasions throughout the years of my prolonged, misspent youth. A landfill somewhere contains at least one Holland America brochure, smattered with my fingerprints and a few errant leaves of cannabis sativa, confirming my murky meanderings of the nautical adventure in my mind.

Heretofore, a paucity of financial means and a general lethargy conspired to ensure my land-locked status. Not so today. I called the place, got the price, did the math. It was really quite feasible. And I'm not exactly busy these days, so it seemed like the perfect time.

The name of the 1,000 foot dinghy I was to ride into the Western Caribbean was the Costa Mediterranea. Despite my forays into the cruising world, I had never heard of Costa, and I was worried that they might well suck, since an experienced catalog cruiser like me was unaware of their existence. Upon viewing the ship online, however, my fears were largely allayed - it was clear, at least from the pictures, that this was one big, fancy boat. Phrases like "Atrium spans 10 decks high", "Reminiscent of an aristocratic Sicilian palace" and "86,000 ton ship" sent waves of giddy anticipation up and down my spine.

The cruise departed at 7 PM, February 19. First stop, the exotic, far away land of ... Key West, Florida.

In my first five hours on the boat, I managed devour four distinct, separate meals. Little wonder the average cruise passenger gains about a pound a day, which is about what that guy in Super-Size Me gained after eating Mickey D's three times a day for a month. Good thing they had a full-service health spa forward on deck nine - as if I would ever use it.

I tried to walk some of the various buffets off by exploring the entire ship (except for other people's cabins, of course) and found myself alone on the top deck, after midnight, staring out into the blackness of sea. It was surprisingly disconcerting to look over the edge and see 172,000,000 pounds of floating steel produce its foamy wake, 80 feet below. Apparently, about 15 people a year fall overboard on cruise ships, and all of them generally die. It's easy to see why: if the fall doesn't kill you, the suction of the massive boat pulls you under and funnels you toward the propellers, where you meet a most unpleasant demise. But if you miraculously managed to free yourself from the swirling undertow, you would enjoy a panic few people have experienced; watching the lighted city pull steadily away, your screams drowned out by the hum of the engines, as you tread water and mull your options.

I suppose it could actually be a placid experience; I, at one with my maker, resigned to my fate, making peace with the world, the only noise that of the gently agitated waters capping into tiny waves. Then Jaws swims up and bites my leg off.

The next morning I positioned myself on the back of the boat (or aft, as those nautical folks call it) and ate breakfast. Afterwards, as we entered the docking area of Key West, I was enjoying a nice cup of cruise ship coffee at sunrise when I had my first encounter with a seafaring fucktard. Avoiding such folk was impossible on a ship with 2,000 people, but so soon? Oy vay.

He, who I surmised was in his early 50's, approached me and said, "Chuck?"

"Uh ... no," I replied, while making my best "You're the number one jackass on the planet, aren't you?" face.

"Oh," he said. "I was just talking to a guy named Chuck. I said to him, 'How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?'" Yes, he actually said that. But the coup de grace was the follow-up nasal laughter characterized by several, quick inhales and exhales that seem to be so popular with people who laugh at their own, painfully unfunny jokes.

I wanted to say, "Maybe the reason you can't find Chuck is because he's plotting ways to kill you?" Instead I stood in shock for a moment before silently and quickly walking away. At that moment, the reason fifteen people fall overboard each year became clear. They don't fall; they are pushed, probably by people named Chuck.

On to Key West. I had envisioned this Southernmost City on the Continental United States many times, and it was nothing like I expected. It had been described to me as a Floridian version of Provincetown; a gay Mecca at the end of beach-laden strips of land. So naturally, I had basically conceived a mental image of P-Town with palm trees. But instead, Key West seemed simultaneously like a foreign country and a kind of colossal, tropical tourist trap.

I walked off the boat completely disoriented; the streets all looked the same, town squares incongruent, banks painted the color of Don Johnson's blazer. It took me several minutes before I got my bearings and was directed to a place to rent a scooter, which I surmised would be a fun transport to check out the island in the brief time allowed before we set sail again. And I was right: despite not knowing where the hell I was, I managed to scoot around at approximately 38 MPH and saw just about the whole place. After leaving DC in near-freezing temperatures, the sun on my face and wind in my hair was worth the $35 alone.

There was the southernmost tip in the US (excepting Hawaii) which is marked by a wholly unspectacular concrete thing-a-ma-bob, declaring that we are standing a scant 90 miles from Cuba. There was Ernest Hemingway's house, where he got drunk and wrote stuff before traveling to Idaho and eating his shotgun. But mostly, Key West is several thousand square feet of one-story houses that resemble a rural countryside which evoke a feeling of being one small step above the poverty line. The idea is that if you are in a tropical paradise, which ostensibly is Key West, then you don't need to live in a mansion, which in any case would need to be rebuilt in the event of a hurricane. And in case there is a hurricane, Key West now comes complete with a Home Depot, where I bought a portable fan before making my way back to the ship.

Day two brought more food and a trip to Cozumel, where Hurricane Wilma had, a scant four months earlier, sat for some sixty hours spitting 140 MPH winds upon her beautiful shores. It was thus surprising that the island was in such good shape, even if there were vast tracts of barren palm trees and random piles of rubble scattered about. We managed to rent dune buggies and zip around the island with fantastic guides named Marrrrrtin (with 5 r's) and Jorge, who spoke excellent English, which was good, since our group was made up of mostly Americans who can't be bothered to learn English all that well, much less some other pinko commie language.

After a wonderful day of riding around to various beaches and snorkeling on the unfortunately devastated reefs, I bid a reluctant farewell to Cozumel, with a vow to return in the not too distant future. On a side note: if you are looking for an inexpensive tropical vacation, Cozumel is the place to go. They are desperate for tourists and you can get some great deals. The incredibly friendly locals will treat you like royalty.

We now had our first of two days at sea, which at one time I had eagerly anticipated, but now looked upon with dread. It had become clear that a cruise is all about the shore excursions, and the ship - while certainly massive - had, for me, exhausted its novelty. Without a real travel companion and a penchant for insomnia, I was subjected to entertaining myself in much the same way as if on a bus; by reading a good book.

On a boat with so many people, one has to sacrifice something for solitude. I was willing to read alone on the very top deck, 11 stories above sea level, where the piercing winds drove everyone else away. It was there that I became enchanted by the stars and the sea and the darkness that surrounded us. From one perspective, a thousand-foot boat is undeniably gigantic as it sits in port, towering above all the ant people. At 1 AM on its upper-most region, it seems like a tiny speck in the ocean, on a tiny planet in a tiny solar system, in a galaxy among countless billions of others. I am not normally prone to flights of romantic fancy, but such moments paid for the trip in my estimation.

Next stop: Jamaica. I tried to ignore the kids departing the boat wearing rasta-esque hats with fake dreadlocks dangling and promised myself that I would have a good time (yes kids, Jamaica is just like Disneyworld, except everyone had dreadlocks and they won't get offended at you bastardizing their religion!). As I previously mentioned, there is a certain herb with which I once had a steamy and passionate love affair. Those days are mercifully behind me, which is why I approached Ganja Island with certain trepidation. I thus planned a golf outing at Sandals Resort in Ocho Rios that kept me far away from the purveyors of Lamb's bread. So I can't tell you much about this very hilly island, other than it has a nice golf course where you can get cell phone service, much to my surprise. Also surprising was that almost no Jamaicans have dreadlocks, and instead they choose to wear their hair closely cropped in no particular style.

We did stop in a "restaurant", which was basically an open area with a tin roof that served jerk pork and jerk chicken. It was quite tasty, as was the accompanying festival, which is a kind of corn-bread cruller shaped like a stick. Everyone was very nice to us, although I got the feeling that, come nightfall, Jamaica can be a very scary place.

The following evening on the boat brought a few moments that had me wishing for the company of the guy who mistook me for Chuck. Likely fueled by the famous Jamaican White Rum (which my cab driver tried to sell me 43 times), several of the passengers were obviously drunk upon embarkation. I took refuge aft near the "adults only" pool, which turned out to be anything but. Yes, those in the pool were of adult age, but you wouldn't have guessed it. A man I will estimate at 320 pounds, ten of which was made up of the hair on his back alone, bounded into the hot tub and started to yell. To my horror, people addressed him as Evan.

So Evan, brimming with the classiest class there is, hollered across the pool area to Brent.

"Hey Brent, you fat fuck, get your fucking ass in here, you fuckin' fuckface!"

I guess Evan, calling a man half his size a fat fuck, shows that at least he had a sense of humor. But there's just nothing like a big, fat, hairy gorilla in a hot tub yelling the foulest of obscenities; no wonder people hate us. The scene that followed in that bubbling cauldron of human glop is something I prefer not to relive here. Feel free to use your imagination.

Last port of call was Grand Cayman Island, where I keep all my drug money. In many ways this was the highlight of the trip, for one reason in particular: I got to hold and kiss a stingray. There is a sandbar a few miles out from the northern shore of Grand Cayman, where the water is only a few feet deep. A private boat took a cadre of my fellow shipmates to this place they call Stingray City. The area is literally teeming with stingrays, and everywhere I looked, oddly shaped charcoal discs moved sublimely through the crystal clear waters. The thrill of holding one of these amazing creatures and giving it a big wet kiss on the flap of its snout is something that you will just have to experience for yourself, and if you do, you will never forget it.

Another day at sea and we found ourselves back in Ft. Lauderdale, along with eight other cruise ships. Despite living the experience that "Hell is other people," as Jean-Paul Sartre once said, I rate my overall enjoyment a solid eight out of ten. Cruises are what they are; a relatively inexpensive way to see to several different places that would otherwise cost five times as much to visit, and if you don't mind sharing your experience with ilk with whom you would normally not socialize, then I highly recommend it. A few tips if you go:

1) Go with people whose company you really enjoy, or at least feel very comfortable around;

2) Try to plan an adults-only trip, or at least travel at a time when kids are supposed to be in school;

3) Avoid people that you want to strangle.

Bon Voyage!

Evan Redmon is a freelance writer and editor. He has lived in Washington, DC for most of his life, with seven years of college down the drain in Madison, WI and four and a half years of doing nothing in particular in Boulder, CO. He has visited 39 of the 50 states in the Union (excluding Alaska and Hawaii) and can be reached at evanredmon@yahoo.com.