26 years of wandering the world on the water while my husband lectured on cruise ships resulted in a lot of stories. Here is another.  

“We sail the ocean blue, and our saucy ship’s a beauty, we’re sober men and true, and attentive to our duty…”. Gilbert & Sullivan, H.M.S.  Pinafore

We did expect the saucy ship to be a beauty; she was brand new.  We were sailing on what was supposed to be her fourth journey but since the shipyard was late in completing her, the first three cruises were cancelled.   As novices we were puzzled at the muttering of more seasoned travelers, all of whom had no desire to be on her maiden voyage.  (Definition:  The first journey made by the craft.   Notable maiden voyages include those of the RMS Titanic and the Swedish warship Vasa.)

It was a transatlantic crossing to New York.  Lots of days at sea, lots of time to discover which cabins had no heat, too much heat, only cold water, only hot water or no water at all (a lot of it was in the corridors.)   A crew of workmen from the shipyard in Italy sailed with us, attentive to their duty as they raced to repair. One elevator would go no higher than the 8^th deck while the doors of another opened only sporadically; frustrating if trying to get in, alarming if trying to get out.  One passenger was trapped in her bathroom for hours before a cabin steward called the crew to pry open the malfunctioning door.   A sense of humor was definitely needed as the kinks were worked out. 

A few years later we dd it again, another transatlantic, but this time the ship was not new, just newly acquired from another cruise line.  It had been sailing for years under a different flag with a different name and enjoyed a good reputation so surely it would be different this time.   It was.  Out of the 98 cruises we’d taken to date, it tied with the one where we nearly capsized as the most unforgettable; ludicrous at the time, laughable later, resulting in memories we cherish.  

When a cruise line sells a ship to another company, interest in maintaining the vessel wanes.   By the time it was transferred it was in bad shape.  Time had been allowed for spruce-up but the discovery of a broken sprinkler system consumed the money and man-hours as the workmen raced the clock toward the inaugural sail date.  As a result, the passengers boarded a fully booked ship that was in an appalling state of disrepair.  The front desk personnel, who had to deal with the never-ending stream of the justifiably irate, earned their way into heaven.   We came to realize that working out the kinks on a new ship is nothing compared to dealing with problems of a neglected older ship while in the middle of the ocean.   The cruise line’s corporate headquarters later admitted they had made a mistake in setting sail; far better to have cancelled the cruise and refunded the money.

Our chapter of the adventure began when we learned we were to be housed in an area set aside for the entertainers hidden behind a door in the back of deck 7, just above the engines, instead of in a passenger cabin as we were supposed to be.  When we finally found it, our corridor colleagues were congregated in the hallway, mutually expressing horror at the place.  We wondered about the dingy sign on the dirty wall with the words “San Andreas Fault.  When the engines started, we understood.   

It’s difficult to adequately describe the condition of those quarters; if the passenger cabins desperately needed attention, there had certainly been no time to do anything here.  The piano player was bellowing that he refused to spend 12 days there, that he was leaving but he got so carried away in his ranting he forgot to leave before the ship sailed.  He spent the entire cruise telling everyone he was getting off at the next port.  Our little group, whom we would come to know well, was comprised of another lecturer, a violinist, a vocalist, two comedians, a ventriloquist, and a young magician and his partner/wife who were so excited about their first cruise ship booking they would have cheerfully slept in a lifeboat.  Unfortunately, their luggage, costumes and equipment didn’t reach the ship so they were never able to perform. 

At first it was a toss-up as to which cabin was the worst but our non-flushing, leaking toilet won that award; the torn and tattered carpet reeked.  Requesting other accommodations was pointless because half the passengers were demanding the same thing but every cabin was taken.  The singer next door gave us a key to his room and insisted we come in at any time.  When we docked in Nova Scotia the next morning the passengers set out to see the sights and I went to the supermarket for quarts of Clorox to pour on the floor.

We had delightful table companions in the dining room, one of whom was the talented violinist across the hall.  We’d heard him play on other cruises but had never an opportunity to get to know him.  Few entertainers opt for the dining room, preferring to eat casually elsewhere, so having him with us was a pleasant surprise.  Dinner conversations inevitably focused on the condition of the ship and the three of us laughingly referred to our abysmal abodes as being in the exclusive 700 area.   Soon our passenger tablemates were clamoring to be taken there to see the area they had been hearing about but we refused.  Dreadful as it was, it was our private place of horror, and we all became territorial about our turf and about one another.  Every night we sat together in the showroom, ardently applauding whoever was performing and then adjourning to one of the lounges to laugh about the latest disaster, whatever it was, and listen to the piano player tell us again that he was leaving at the next port (he never did.)   We were having so much fun people began to join us, often wondering aloud at our continued cheer in the face of seeming adversity.

The day before we disembarked, we presented each of our corridor mates with a “700 Club Membership certificate.  We hung another on the wall, signed by every one of us as being the founders of the club and living to tell the tale.  That story was to ripple throughout the world of entertainers and lecturers, and we still hear about it, often with a wistful “I wish I’d been there for the fun”.    Those cabins were eventually somewhat improved, but we’re told the certificate stayed for a long while.  We still occasionally hear from the “club members” and we think of them, and that experience, fondly.  When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.