Weekend cruises are hot: According to a recent study, the number of people sailing for two to five nights has grown more than 600 percent since 1980. And why not? You get all the perks of longer voyages (excursions, shows, nonstop food) and are home in time for dinner on Monday. BUT WITH AS FEW as 70 hours between the first walk up the gangway and the last walk down, is there enough cruise in a quickie cruise to make it worth the effort? Four Washington travelers flew to the Port of Miami to find out. And they came with a second question: Is an 880-foot, 74,000-ton ship big enough to entertain four workmates with widely different views of what constitutes fun? Stepping out of the yellow taxi into the shadow of Royal Caribbean's Majesty of the Seas were four archetypes of the oceanborn holiday: - Joe Cruise, a longtime enthusiast of the big ships who never met a Michigan retiree he wasn't ready to drink a frozen mudslide with.
- His cabinmate, the Sophisticate, a creature of the cocktail hour who would rather pβtι than par-tay.
- Turbogirl, a high-energy vegetarian multi-sport princess whose idea of kicking back includes an hour in the gym and scuba tanks at 60 feet.
- And the Curmudgeon, a bookish cruise misanthrope who comes aboard with expectations about as low as a sunken galleon.
On a fall Friday afternoon, fresh from a flight from Reagan National, this odd quartet entered the embarkation hall to begin their 2.5-day voyage to the Bahamas and back. BIG BOAT, SMALL CABINS 68 hours to go: The agent at Cruises Only had promised a good shot at upgrading out of the two steerage cabins the quartet had booked, but a sign at the crowded counter cuts them short. "The Ship Is Full" is what it says. "Don't Bug Us About Upgrading" is what it means. Worse, their cabins are on different decks, with no hope of changing to two closer together. And they are mistakenly assigned to two different tables at dinner. The Curmudgeon shivers at the prospect of actually talking with strangers at table. She warily eyes a photographer who works the line in a doofy party hat, rousing everyone to sing to any passenger claiming a birthday. Turbogirl spies a sailboat in the distance and wonders if she could crew to the Bahamas instead. But with credit cards imprinted and tabs open, the foursome mounts the gangway and files into the ship's grand and glitzy central atrium. "If Las Vegas had a throat," Joe Cruise muses, marveling at the ship's sparkling central gullet of balconies and rails, "this is what it would look like." Three towering Scandinavian blondes hand out deck maps and direct the four down, down, down to their lower-deck inside berths. "Have I wandered into a broom closet by mistake?" Turbogirl wonders. But the cabin is clean and shipshape, with two sofas-cum-beds, a nightstand, desk and chair, wall-mounted TV and a functional closet. The bathroom is as snug as a phone booth; you could flush the toilet from inside the shower. Royal Caribbean is known to offer some of the industry's smallest staterooms, and the Majesty of the Seas is 10 years old practically ancient in cruise-line terms. But what the ship lacks in 21st-century glitz, it makes up for in cost: The quartet paid $279.42 apiece for their weekend jaunt, including taxes and port charges. At that price, who needs on-board putting greens and climbing walls. WHERE'S THE FOOD? 67 hours to go: The first order of business of any cruise is to eat a meal (which is also the last order of business and all orders of businesses in between). The Majesty's forward dining room, the Windjammer Cafι, is a vast, glassed-in hall with twin steam tables, a carving station and despite it being neither lunch nor dinner time a wall-to-wall crowd. It's as bright and cheerful as a greenhouse, with a pleasing view of the behemoth ships lining Miami's waterfront. The Curmudgeon plunks her tray down and looks around guardedly at the parade of large bodies in small clothes. Several raucous groups shout from table to table. A chubby teenager with brown Bo Derek braids, Daisy Duke shorts and a tiny camisole top follows her father gold chain, tank top, mullet haircut back to the serving line. There's just time before the mandatory lifeboat drill to get their dinner-table assignments sorted out. The foursome navigates the rat's maze of passageways until they find the Blue Skies Lounge, where the chief maitre d' holds court. Trying to change your seating time is a hallowed cruise ritual the Sophisticate, for one, is aghast at the idea of dinner at 6:15, an hour God clearly made for whisky and hors d'oeuvres. But gaining an audience is like petitioning the pope. Finally, they are escorted into his presence at a table where he sits like a Mafia don, the master seating chart before him. He sighs heavily, mutters something ominous, but grants their change to a single table at 8:30 p.m. The group skips the "Port and Shopping" lecture in the Chorus Line lounge and the Orwellian-sounding consultation with Ricardo, the "Loyalty Ambassador" (some sort of frequent-cruiser discount program). Instead, after the prolonged marching up and down of the lifeboat drill, Turbogirl and the Curmudgeon go off to tour the spa and the gym while Joe Cruise and the Sophisticate head to the twin pools on Deck 11 or, more specifically, to the poolside bar. "Two strawberry daiquiris!" Joe Cruise shouts over the lubricated babble and reggae throb (the Sophisticate quietly changes that to a neat Scotch). It's a mixed crowd, what you might see at a large office picnic. A few hardbodies preen in the cool salt water of the pool; the singles are fully deployed, delivering lines and swatting them down in double time. There are nubile young things and buff middle-aged couples, and even a couple of black-clad urban punks. It's a good, diverse crowd. WHERE'S THE ACTION? 65 hours to go: Sometime during the revelry, with the sun casting long shadows across the deck, the Majesty begins a gentle glide out to sea with an escort of Coast Guard runabouts. Even the Curmudgeon, who has settled on the starboard side to watch Miami slide by, gives in to the sweet pleasure of the afternoon. "Don't tell me this is going to be fun," she thinks with surprise. The poolside Bon Voyage Party is still going strong when the quartet reconvenes below in the Schooner Piano Bar, just off the gallery of duty-free liquor shops, perfumeries and jewelry shops in the atrium. Time seems to collapse on a short cruise. At this moment, half the passengers are dining, there's a Jewish Sabbath service in the Windjammer, a hair-coloring demo in the salon and slot lessons in the casino ("Goooood. Now pull the handle. That's it."). They're setting up an art auction on Deck 3. The bars are full. And photographers are everywhere, creating a blizzard of forced-smile images. Already, there are several hundred snapshots of the cruise-thus-far on display for purchase, of course in the photo shop. TABLE TROUBLE 61.5 hours to go: Dinner at Table 85 starts badly. A family separated between two tables glares at the four Washingtonians apparently the maitre d' fixed one table snafu by creating another. As the staff scrambles to find everyone a seat, the Curmudgeon chats up Scott Cohen, 41, a Harvard architecture professor here with his family to celebrate their mother's 70th birthday. He, too, is slow getting into cruise mode. "There isn't any architecture on this ship," he pronounces. "But that's okay. The ship itself is a piece of architecture." And then he's whisked off to another table, to be replaced by Joel Schecter, a volunteer firefighter from Fort Lauderdale onboard with his wife and two friends. In true cruise fashion, Joel, a friendly Jesse Ventura lookalike, orders not one but two entrιes. Turbogirl negotiates the vegetarian options with Helen, the funny and feisty Caribbean waiter. More than half the menu is ruled out, but they plod through the possibilities. Mixed salad for starters good. Fish? No fins, please. Pork? Um, that's meat. Grilled vegetables and rice? Perfect. Helen then calls over the dining room manager who, in a thick Eastern European accent, promises a custom menu each night. Even Turbomom isn't this accommodating. SHOWTIME! 59 hours to go: After dinner, it's time for the 11 o'clock "Welcome Aboard" show. The eternally perky British cruise director, Nicki Stevens, attempts to warm up the engorged crowd. She introduces a sweet couple from the audience, Florence and Abe, married 60 years. "What's the secret of your happy marriage?" Nicki asks. Abe shoots back with expert timing, "Two words: 'Sorry, honey.' " Nicki turns it over to the Royal Caribbean Singers and Dancers, and guess what? Far from the tawdry Vegas-style revue the foursome expected, the troupe performs with energy, originality and some genuinely impressive sets. Who knew there was a talent on Earth that could turn "Paradise by the Dashboard Light" into something theatrical? The show is a medley of hits through the decades, but the Curmudgeon retires to her stateroom sometime around the early '80s. The other three prowl the nightlife for a while as the ship kills time on the short steam to Nassau. They squeeze into the crowded disco in the On Your Toes Lounge, where the young and the sweaty, and the old and the heaving, try to boogie. Then, after the Sophisticate plays a few spins of roulette and Joe Cruise gives a clinic in video poker, they call it a day. | | FORTS AND SPORTS 50 hours to go: The group awakes in the Bahamas, and the Majesty is tied up alongside two other cruise ships in Nassau, a very small town with a really big dock. By 8 a.m. the retired military types on board have been up for hours, and half a dozen people are jogging or walking around the Promenade Deck. This is shore excursion day, and the quartet is fully booked. Only Joe Cruise doesn't have an early departure. His breakfast ordered the night before arrives as promised at 9 on the dot. At 9:05, he gets a call asking if he's happy with the meal. His $42 "Stingray Snorkel and Beach Break" excursion is hours away, so he's killing time on deck with a frozen mudslide, chatting with an Ohio couple. The Ohioans are killing the entire day, with no plans to leave the ship, and proud of it. Turbogirl, meanwhile, is a few miles offshore, sitting in a diving boat preparing for her $70 shark-sighting adventure. After the pampering on the Majesty, she didn't expect this two-tank scuba excursion to include any heavy labor. Not so. "Well, what are you waiting for?" demands Latimer Wood, the 21-year-old dive master. "Did you think I was going to set up your gear?" A few minutes later, she's deep in the Caribbean. "Shark! Shark! Shark!" she thinks into her mask. "Shar . . . ." Oh, forget it, there are too many to keep that up. She's surrounded by reef sharks, but she's surprisingly calm, trying to block out the mental strains of the "Jaws" theme song. Down she goes, toward the wreck of the Bahamama, a party boat that sank 10 years ago. As Turbogirl sinks, the Sophisticate is an hour into his tour of historic Nassau (two half-ruined forts and the impressive Pirates of Nassau Museum: $12). His jolly van driver idles outside the shell-pink parliament building. Through a scratchy P.A. system, he alternatively narrates the sights, evangelizes for Jesus and shouts pick-up lines at any buxom passerby who comes out of the many watch and jewelry stores. "Hey Mama, come join us. We got A.C. in here. The windows are down that's A.C. in the Bahamas! Hahahahahaha!" Outside Fort Charlotte, a group of teenagers black and white play a game of pickup cricket in a field surrounded by tropical blooms. The thwock of the heavy bat and the muffled thuds of the runners add a serene soundtrack to the sunny morning. DOLPHINS AND STINGRAYS 48 hours to go: The Curmudgeon, meanwhile, is on a catamaran heading for Dolphin Encounters, a lower-key version of a swim-with-the-dolphins program. "You won't be swimming with them," the instructor confirms as the group of about 20 settles in to watch an instructional video. "But you will hug, pet, feed, dance with and kiss them." Half the group climbs single file into a sea-water tank, where Exuma, a 3-year-old, 175-pound male dolphin, awaits. One by one, they get their kiss as Exuma's trainer doles out herrings as rewards. It's a kiss assembly line, at $92 a pop. The Curmudgeon isn't under any illusions she knows Exuma's prime motivation is the fish but it's a sweet moment nonetheless. Far from stressed, he seems playful and frisky. She pets him; he feels like a hard-boiled egg. Exuma works the line like a pro, letting the delighted humans feel his teeth (pointy), feed him and "dance" with him (holding onto his fins). He hugs them one by one, and a convenient staff photographer records the moment a shot no one can resist buying, not even a curmudgeon. Joe Cruise, finally underway by mid-afternoon, is on Blackbeard's Cay, a 20-minute boat ride from the Nassau pier. After signing a waiver and being tossed some snorkeling gear, he heads to a lagoon stocked with dozens of stingrays. They're huge, as is the crowd waiting to mingle with the sealife. He wades out into the lagoon, assuming that the rays are too smart to associate with the rabble at water's edge. He couldn't be more wrong. Like kittens begging for attention, the rays hug the surf line, flapping over feet and canoodling with the cruisers. Everyone gets a handful of fish innards and these instructions: "Let the rays eat out of your hands, but keep your fingers away from their mouths." Mouths? Where? As it happens, the swimming UFOs know the drill, swooping down over the chum and Hoovering it off peoples' palms. DISCO A-NO-NO 41 hours to go: Tonight, cocktail hour for the foursome is in the Viking Crown Lounge, a crow's nest of a bar overlooking the pools. But Night 2 is also the captain's reception and "formal night." Some are fully into it, with tuxes and sequins and hair carefully done. Most give a nod to the tradition with a sport coat, like the Sophisticate, or a Little Black Dress, like the Curmudgeon. Joe Cruise refuses to go beyond khakis and a button-down. The Sophisticate dutifully shakes hands with the captain (you can't get the free champagne otherwise), then the group troops to the dining room. Dinner is festive, as the quartet reviews the day with their four dining mates. Their favorite thing so far? "Just being with my friends," says Ellen Schechter, a kindergarten teacher. "And my husband, of course. At home, we don't have enough time by ourselves." The night's schedule, as usual, is packed, with karaoke, a game show, dancing under the stars and a late-night pool party. But the Curmudgeon wants nothing more than to read in bed. She doesn't even hear Turbogirl come in, after her own long night at the comedy revue (funny), the midnight buffet (funnier) and the disco (not funny at all). COCO CAY 25 hours to go: Sunday is set aside for lots of nothing on the beach. Royal Caribbean runs its own little island, Coco Cay, a few leagues north of Nassau, and the tender begins shuttling passengers over promptly at 8:30 a.m.. By the time the D.C. foursome makes the trip at 11, the best chairs around the rocky lagoon are taken and the rental Jet-Skis are already aswarm. But they walk to the island's far end and find a stretch of secluded, nearly deserted beach. It's a private little haven, a perfect base for a day of reading in the waving palm shade and wading in the warm shallows. After lunch at the free barbecue shack, the Sophisticate rents snorkel gear and spends an hour with the neon fish, swimming amid two small plane wrecks in the lagoon. Joe Cruise and Turbogirl stroll and swim, and the Curmudgeon happily devours a novel. They are, literally, the last passengers off at the end of the day. SO MUCH TO DO . . . 18 hours to go: Back on board, the pace picks up again as a sense of closure descends on the ship. Only a few hours after the captain's welcome, seemingly, officials are asking for bags to be put outside of cabin doors in preparation for an 8 a.m. debarkation. Diners fret over the complicated system of tips expected by waiters and stewards, and there's a final run on duty-free booze (a liter of Bacardi for $8.95!). But there's still time for some uniquely cruise fun. Turbogirl plays some high-roller bingo. The big winner is a woman named Joan (who, remarkably, also took the bronze in that day's belly-flop contest). Joe Cruise snoozes to the sound of Sinatra by the pool. When he wakes, all the chairs but his have been stacked and the crew is hosing down the deck. And the Curmudgeon, inexplicably, finds herself in the Blue Skies Lounge, where 13 passengers are engaged in the Battle of the Sexes, a game show modeled after "Family Feud." From a curmudgeonly point of view, it's a formula for disdain. What could it possibly mean, she wonders to herself, that she enjoys it? The mystery only deepens. The last dinner is pleasant. Helen fills them in on life below decks. Even the singing waiters manage to entertain. GOODBYE TO ALL THAT Zero hour: The next morning, during the frantic scrum to evacuate the ship, the Curmudgeon spots the Harvard professor, her first-night dining companion and fellow anti-cruise snob. "Hey, I had a good time," he yells to her over the mob by the stairs. The Curmudgeon replies, with happy surprise, "Me too." by JOHN DEINER, STEVE HENDRIX, ANDREA SACHS and K.C. SUMMERS |
