Day 1-- October 26th
Barcelona
41°
27' N
I was not sorry to be leaving
Barcelona. I was tired from a month of aggressive traveling and
Barcelona...well... There were just too many people. Perhaps it was
because it was the weekend or the fact that almost 10,000 people were
in town simply to board one of the transatlantic cruise ships that
would be leaving this day. Whatever the case, it was just too, too
crowded and I was unable to make a connection to the city. Or maybe
I was just jaded from having seen so much in the past month. I was
ready to set sail.
By 1:00 pm Glenda and I were on board
the SS Norwegian Epic. Four cruise chips were lined up at the
port—three of which would arrive somewhere in Florida two weeks
later. It's the time of year for ships that have plied European
waters to head back to the Caribbean. Price drop, ships fill up,
and, I dare say, the majority of us are simply out for the ride.
At 5:27 pm were were on deck. With a
long blast from the ship's horn we pulled out of our berth and headed
west. Shortly, the breeze freshened against our faces; hovering
gulls swooped by as I flung kernels of popcorn overboard. I felt
that particular tingle I always feel as I depart for uncertain
territory.
For more than two hours the Epic
paralleled Barcelona—first the city and then its suburbs and
then the smaller towns that extended west. Because it was late on a
warm Sunday afternoon, the waters all around us were thick with
sailboats.
Shortly the sun set, but the horizon
glowed pink and orange and the air had a soft chill to it. I was
sitting on our balcony when I looked up and saw, in the eastern sky,
a rising crescent of a cool silvered moon. The night was clear and a
cool wind blew on my shoulders. All good omens, I thought.
We were on our way!
Day 2 – October 27th
Western Mediterranean
37°
50' N
By morning of our first full day we
were firmly in the Western Mediterranean. The day was clear and a
warm hazy sun and lack of wind made for a fine day at sea. For hours
tankers passed us on both sides. Were we in some sort of middle
passage, reserved only for ocean liners? I didn't know.
At times, the Spanish mainland was
visible from our starboard cabin. I never did see Africa off Port.
We passed the Balearic Islands of Ibiza and Mallorca and by early
evening the land narrowed. Spain and Morocco were a short few miles
apart. We'd arrived in the Straits of Gibraltar.
It was dark, but Gibraltar—the
Rock—was clearly visible. Like some black shadow, it rose out of
the sea. Ten miles away the lights of Tangiers twinkled.
Africa/Europe—so close but so very, very far apart.
I'd been in these waters before, but
under very different circumstances. In the summer of 1983 I was 33
and traveling through Portugal and Spain before setting sail from
Algeciras, Spain heading to Tangiers.
There are many parts of that trip that
are lost to memory . Indeed, Lisbon, Faro, Madrid and Barcelona were
essentially new cities, even though I'd been to them all before. (I
am grateful to my journal from that time to flesh out what I really
did on that trip.)
But Morocco was not lost to memory.
Perhaps because it was the first time I”d travelled to a locale
deemed “exotic,” my memories of Morocco are still clear.
On the boat that day I left Southern
Spain I met a young German couple. We became pen pals for awhile,
long before the advent of email. It was they who introduced me to a
recipe I still use—Norwegian Apple Cake, a cake that has sweetened
many a Sunday autumn afternoon.
Somewhere on that short voyage between
Europe and Africa I also met two recently graduated students from
Long Island who'd majored in business. One of them wanted to work at
the New York Stock Exchange.
“I'll be dead by 40,” I remember
him telling me.
I do hope that's not the case, and that
some common sense took over during the past thirty years. I hope
he's alive and 50 and that somehow during the past 32 years he had an
epiphany that stress can kill and that the Stock Exchange may not be
the best place for him.
Such is youth that 40 is old!
The three of us bunked in together for
our time in Tangiers. As is always the case with young travelers,
there is an easy fluidity that enables them to connect and disconnect
easily.
A few days later we did split. I
traveled south to a series of Moroccan cities, connected then
reconnected. I still remember the sights and sounds and the full
beautiful sensual assault that North Africa afforded. I would like
to have gone further south but my time in Europe was coming to an
end. From Marrakesh I flew back to Tangiers, crossed the Straits
again and caught a train to Madrid and flew home.
Almost all aspects of the European part
of that trip are fuzzy, but not the passage past Gibraltar into
Morocco and the journey south. I think it's been so well remembered
because it was just so much different from anything I'd experienced
prior.
There are still echoes of that world I
lived in. I silently spoke to the specter of that young man crossing
the Straight on a summer's afternoon so long ago.
“You'll have a wonderful life.
You'll know love and deep friendships, a good career. You don't know
that yet, but you will.”
“There'll be bumps, of course, and
great sadnesses but still, in the end, it's going to be great.”
So all of these pleasant memories
swirled around me that early evening as we passed the Straits of
Gibraltar. I could still see the excited young man making that
crossing more than half a lifetime ago.
I stood high on the deck of the Epic,
camera ready. The “Rock” was nothing but a silhouette against a
blue-black night. Electric lights girded the base of Gibraltar and
stretched out along the Spanish and Moroccan sides.
“Goodbye young man,” I said to the
young man who was now entering his Golden years. “The second half
of your life is going to be extraordinary. Trust me!”
For a moment I felt enclosed in the
amber of long ago, but by Odyssic nature took over and craned to see
what lay ahead. I will always be a traveler, I thought. And that's
not a bad thing to be.
Day 4 – October 29th
Madeira, Portugal
Latitude 32°
38' N
“Ready
to welcome the day?” Glenda said early on the morning of October
29th? She was about to open the draperies and let in
Madeira sunshine.
And
sun it was! After two cloudy days at sea it was good to know we'd
enjoy a day on the island in full sun.
We
were just off the coast of the island, 1,132 nautical miles from
Barcelona. At first view, the island had an Aegean quality to
it—white houses with terracotta roofs. Terraced gardens crept up
hillsides. It was a good first impression.
Once
off the boat we boarded the island's Hop-On bus which led to a huge
disappointment in the end. All it did was skirt through Funchal, the
island's principal city, rise a bit out of it to a high point which
gave us ocean vistas. We circled once, and got off at the entrance
to the cable car, slapped down 30 Euros and rode the teleferico
to the island's tropical gardens a couple of thousand feet above sea
level.
This
wasn't a disappointment. Acres of tropical plants and flowers
indigenous to this climate filled multiple gardens—all terraced
downwards toward to sea. The views were spectacular. From this
aerie we could see the Norwegian Epic—huge in comparison to
the other cruise ships berthed nearby.
Once
down in town again, I wandered the cobbled streets, reminding myself
how nice it was to be back in Portugal. I checked email, stocked up
on Coke and wended myself back to the boat with just enough time to
spare before I'd miss it. This was no time to be left behind. From
Madeira we'd be six days at sea.
As
much as I enjoyed the island, it reminded me once again of how
limiting cruises can be. There was so much more to see and do and
eight hours was simply not enough time. But I'd resigned myself to
this earlier. A transatlantic cruise really is about places.
Instead it's all about the ride and the people one meets. And from
this moment on it was all about the next six days when we'd be at
sea. It was 2,642 nautical miles to St. Maarten and the best was yet
to come.
Day
5 – October 30th
Off
the Coast of Madeira
Latitude
32° 38' N
I
awoke early. Glenda was still sleeping so I quietly left the
stateroom and made my way to Deck 15 where I could read, grab a
Danish and orange juice and let her sleep in a bit longer.
When
I got off the elevator I was met by a great noise—a deafening
whoop-whoop-whoop. Imagine my
surprise, then, when I got on deck to see a military helicopter
hovering above, its great blades announcing that something was very
wrong.
It
was well before 7:00 am, but more than 50 people were on deck. What
was even more curious was that the island of Madeira, which we'd left
more than 12 hours earlier, was clearly visible off port side.
I
ran back to the room, grabbed my camera, told a startled Glenda about
the unfolding drama then got back upstairs. Even in this short
period of time numbers had increased. Who could sleep through all
this noise?
I
began to pray—almost urgently. What else could anyone do? This had
to be a grave situation for the Epic to reverse course and
call in an emergency helicopter. Someone, I thought, had to be
seriously ill.
Fifteen
minutes later a large team of EMT's raced by below us, all
accompanying a woman on a stretcher, breathing through a tube. They
whisked her up an elevator and almost immediately emerged under the
aircraft. A long rope from the helicopter was attached to the
stretcher. A moment later she was securely on board. Another rope
dropped then lifted the woman's companion. Safely aboard, one of the
crew signaled a long wave to the crowd. People aboard the Epic
waved and cheered and shouted well wishes.
By
7:00 am the drama aboard the ship was over. The helicopter sped off
towards Madeira, the boat slowly turned around and we headed west
once again.
But
it really wasn't over. During breakfast we wondered how the woman
was faring. And who would pick up the tab for all this? Medical
evacuation side, would this woman be slapped with an NCL fuel
surcharge? Just how much extra fuel did it take to alter course? We
were both glad that we'd picked up good travel insurance.
All
day I continued to pray. “Be with her God.” What else could any
of us do?
Day
8 – November 2nd
Mid-Voyage
Latitude
26° 13' N
We'd
been aboard a week. If I'd not looked a calendar I'd have had no
idea what day of the week it was. It could be Friday. It could be
July. It could be winter somewhere else. We could be sailing on the
Pacific or in the Indian Ocean. Here it's always summer.
Days
were easing by like wind down my throat. Each day was a stumbling
succession of sky, sea and sky joined together in a dancing stream of
blue. The few clouds there were scudded by against a soft blue sky.
There
were no landmarks that allowed us to take stock of our progress.
Hour after hour, day after day, the Epic slowly pushed towards
North America through gentle waves on an empty sea.
The
days were a seemingly endless stretch of cloudless blue-white. It
never rained. There was no air traffic above us. Somewhere in front
of us or behind us were the two ships that set sail the same day from
Barcelona, but we never saw them.
Three
days earlier I'd seen a freighter far off starboard—the only other
sign of humans since we'd left Madeira. Despite the Epic feeling
like the streets of Calcutta as 4,000 passengers and 2,000 crew
filled its halls, we really were alone—and quite vulnerable—in
the middle passage of the Atlantic.
These
were the best days of the transatlantic crossing, a voyage the
majority of us take just for the experience of it. There was
something quite wonderful about saying “I'm in the middle of the
ocean.” Hour after hour it was nothing but the deep blue sea and a
wide open sapphire blue sky.
It
was a splendid feeling!
Day
10 – November 4th
Mid
Atlantic
21°
10' N
We'd
had six time changes in the past ten days. Each has been no more
than an hour. Twice we've “rolled back” two nights in a row.
All of this has made for some disruptive sleeping patterns.
Today
I'm up at 5:40 am but have been awake long before that. I'm not the
only person who's been sleeping badly. It's a buzz I've all over the
ship.
I
slip out of the room, head upstairs to the pool deck. I”m not
alone. There are heaps of other early risers. NCL accommodates us
with coffee and donuts. Even at this early hour, there are folks
staking out their deck chairs for the day.
It's
already warm. We've been steadily traveling southwest, towards
warmer waters and a stronger sun. More than once I've seen flying
fish while sitting on the balcony—always a sign of warmer climes.
According
to the Navigation Channel we will travel 4,800 miles between
Barcelona and Miami. At 16 miles an hour, that's 384 miles a day.
This is our 6th day at sea, and save for a detour on day
two for the sick passenger, we've slowly made our way from Madeira to
the Eastern Atlantic.
“Even
the fish swim faster than we're sailing,” Glenda commented to me
over breakfast. I chuckle.
I
just love this life at 16 miles an hour.
I
head to the gym. These are one of those places on board where I feel
as if I'm stuck on a busy street at rush hour in a large Indian city.
It's good sized, but there are 4,000 guests on board. Even at 7:30
am every treadmill is in use. There's no such thing as circuit
training. When you get a machine you just sit there and finish your
sets, otherwise another person will jump right in.
But
I do manage two workouts a day—one in the morning and one later in
the afternoon. My lifestyle aboard this ship, aside from too many
food choices, is actually quite good. When I'm done I soak in the
spa's massive hot tub. This is exclusive property. It's very
luxurious, and well positioned at the back of the boat with
phenomenal sea views. There are multiple saunas and steam rooms.
I've paid $200.00 extra for this privilege and fully intend to get my
money's worth.
By
10:30 I'm ready for the serious part of the day—doing nothing
except lying on a lounge chair under the hot sun. Early on in the
cruise I'd been clued in to the “adults only” sunbathing area
high on Deck 19—securely protected by high walls and a windy
staircase.
“Adults
only.” Read nude sunbathing. No tan-line-time-in-the-sun. Almost
everyone there is crazy, but in a fun sort of way. No one wears
clothes. Manolito, a bar steward who's obviously comfortable with
nudity, pops up often. A core group of these folk drink way too
much, from way too early in the day.
I
have a lecture series I'm listening to, bu it's virtually impossible
to pay attention because there's almost non-stop banter among these
people. I finally give up trying to listen and just enjoy their
company, the warm sun. Instead, I read, engage in conversation, toss
ice cubes during one of the at-least-once-a-day ice cube wars.
No
one here is under 35. Indeed, there aren't many people generally on
this cruise under 35. This whole Deck 18 crowd is well educated,
many retired, who have the funds and time to take a TA—a
transatlantic cruise as I've come to learn the jargon. There's a
doctor, several nurses, a lawyer, a retired postal worker as well as
a retired Navy officer.
There's
a core group of ten of these folks who do the TA on the Epic
twice a year. Miami—Barcelona in April; Barcelona—Miami in
October. Tough life! There's another 100 or so who do them at least
once a year or year and a half. There's an organized group email of
which I'm now a part, not that I'd do this particular cruise again.
At least I'd know someone if I did a return trip.
By
late afternoon the sun has sunk too low for tanning. I'm exhausted.
The sun always does that to me. I want to shower, take a nap.
Instead, I go back to the Spa. I've been on the boat long enough,
and because this is an exclusive group (read...pay $200.00 to join)
I've made a small circle of acquaintances. We're all on the same
boat—literally--so people go out of their way to be friendlier than
they might be on land. It's not likely I will ever keep in touch
with any of these people, but they're pleasant at this juncture of
the trip.
By
7:00 pm I'm back in the room, checking email on my iPad, laying on my
bed in gym shorts and nothing else. The door opens. It's Melody,
our super-friendly cabin steward. She's on her nightly round of
turning down the beds.
“Oh,
Mr. Daniel. You're sleeping.”
“No,
I tell her. Just resting.”
I
scramble to put on a shirt.
Each
night she makes us a towel animal. She's very creative, and a good
story teller. When we're in the room she weaves a tale as she winds
the towel. Our stateroom is full of elephants, dogs, crabs and
lobsters. Glenda saves them all. By Day 10 we're running out of room
in the towel-animal museum.
Tonight's
animal comes with a profound story.
In
2003 she was a steward on another ship when another crew member, a
young Romanian woman, was afraid to return home because she was
pregnant. One evening she just disappeared, but there are cameras
all over the boat and a quick review indicated she'd jumped
overboard. A very good form of suicide.
Melody
contorts the towel, while she continues with the story.
The
boat turns around. Hours pass, and just as the ship is about to give
up, she's seen floating unconsciously on something.
By
the now the animal has taken form. When Melody adds a head, she
concludes by telling us that a giant sea turtle had rescued the
woman.
I
wonder two things. Is the story true, or by what Divine intervention
did all this occur. What made this animal know to save this
desperate woman? Or...had Melody divined a great story to tell while
she made her nightly animals?
By
now it's time for dinner. We usually eat late. Glenda and I have
always gone in different directions on cruises, but we always join up
for dinner. There is always too much food, and too many choices.
Each
evening we have been dining with friends that Glenda made—Peachy
from Tennessee and Florida and Lynn of Bristol, England. Peachy's
fun. She's not afraid to tell a ribald joke and, as time's gone on,
she and I banter back and forth is a fun, silly way.
There
is absolutely nothing on the menu that looks appealing. It's been
that way for days. I'm longing for simple food. Peachy and I often
order together. Always a steak and something else, which we share.
We still leave a pile of food behind.
I've
always wanted to take the classic three-month-around-the-world cruise
but this cruise has convinced me that 105 days would be overkill and
that it would grow old very fast.
By
9:45 pm I'm tuckered out. I sit on the balcony looking out at the
sea. An almost full moon shimmers off the surface.
All
day it's been cloudy and grey, but by evening the sky has cleared.
The air is very heavy. We're well within the Caribbean heading south
west. Night clouds scurry by.
I
turn to the gathering darkness and whisper deep thanks. I know I
live in a privileged space and what I have is not lost to me.
“Thank
you,” I whisper. “Thank you.”
Day
11 – November 5th
St.
Maarten, Netherland Antilles
18°
72' N
“We're
on one island but in two countries.”
“We
have two governments, two capitals, two currencies and two sets of
license plates.”
“We
have a mosque and 192 nationalities living on 37 square miles.”
We
had finally crossed the Atlantic and on this early November morning
found ourselves in the Western Caribbean on the Dutch/French island
of St. Maarten, 3,775 nautical miles from Barcelona.
Five
cruise ships were in port this morning. People streamed out of boats
and off the three piers. Frankly, I was astounded that there were
vans and taxis still available to bring tourists around the island.
By
9:30 we'd found a slot on a tourist van and were on our way.
At
best, it's a cheesy tour. The island was too densely populated.
Cars jammed the roads. We stop two times for photos ops. I'd been
to this part of the Caribbean before. St. Kitts and Antigua,
neighboring islands, offered wide open spaces and sweeping island
vistas.
But
not St. Maarten. It seemed, at least to me, a mass of poor,
over-crowded homes, complete with astronomically expensive gated
communities and luxury hotels. I wasn't getting a good first
impression.
Once
on the French side, all English disappeared and French took over.
Prices were marked in Euros and license plates showed the ten star
circle of the EU. I wondered how a relatively small island could be
divided into two with Paris dictating policy on one side and
Rotterdam determining policy on the other. It was all very curious.
Frankly,
though, the whole tour was a bit boring, so I got off at the last
stope—Orient Beach—staked out a place on the sand and stayed
until the sun got too hot. I was a sandy mess when I left to go
shopping in town. I was in quest of Dutch goodies—stroopwaffel,
Dutch cheese and good licorice.
But
even the shopping was disappointing. I was back on the boat early.
St. Maarten had made no good impression on me and I could not imagine
vacationing in such an over-crowded island.
Or
perhaps I just missed the security of the ship. We'd been
comfortably cocooned on the Epic for more than a week and
maybe the island was just too hectic after the relaxed life I'd come
to know.
That
night I begged off dinner. I simply could not be bothered to dress
or even put on shoes, nor could I endure another another evening of
rich food. I didn't even want to talk with anyone.
Instead,
I slogged my way to the Garden Cafe—gym shorts, tee shirts and
sands—sandals and ate alone.
It
was wonderful.
I
ate, didn't talk to anyone, moved once because I was too close to a
table with children, found myself a quiet corner and wrote for three
hours. By the time I left there was only a large handful of people
in the restaurant.
It
was a perfect way to end the day.
Day
15 – November 9th
Miami,
Florida
Latitude
25° 73' N
All
journeys come to an end. It just seemed we'd unpacked when it was
time to pack up.
Early
in the morning the sky was overcast and with occasional patches of
blue. It had been this way the day before, but by early afternoon
the skies cleared. And that is what happened today. Blue emerged
into a glorious last day at sea. There was nothing I wanted to do
except lay on a lounge chair and catch every last ray of Bahamian
sun.
As
the day progressed we were more and more reintroduced to
civilization. Contrails of jets streaked the sky. A large cruise
ship followed us from Saint Thomas. A few, smaller, pleasure craft
plied the water. At one point I could see low-lying Bahamian islands.
Miami and the end of the cruise were just hours away.
Both
Glenda and I had slept fitfully that last night. I dreamt of the
Epic sailing down Florida canals, past people's homes. At one
point I dreamt my bedspread was made of mushrooms.
That
morning I woke early, opened the drapes and found we'd arrived in the
Port of Miami.
We
had but a few hours—a last breakfast on the balcony, a final look
around the room, and then we were off. By 10:00 am both of us had
gone our separate ways—me to the airport to wait out a later flight
to Mexico City and Glenda to Fort Lauderdale where she's wait out her
flight back to Plattsburgh.
The
TA had come to an end, but I just had a feeling that it wouldn't be
the last. Cruises are too addicting, and too much fun.
