Jason

It was August of 2003. We were joyfully embarking on our second cruise, this time a 5-day voyage on the cruise ship Imagination, one of Carnival's smaller vessels. After our rookie sailing the previous summer on the Grand Princess, we simply couldn't wait to share our newfound love of the cruise experience with our two daughters, ages 16 and 11, and hoped they would be as thrilled as we were.

Our destination would be the Western Caribbean, the ports of Belize and Key West, and two relaxing days at sea. We happily crammed our family of four into a 160-square-foot inside cabin, and off we sailed to paradise!
Look at all that space - very cozy, wouldn't you say?

Everything was going great. The girls were having a blast, reveling in this great new way to vacation. "What? We CAN eat all day and all night?" They spent the first two days joyfully grazing the culinary treats that awaited them - the buffet, ice cream, pizza, sushi, and every other delectable delight. After all, where else could they eat anything they wanted and not have to empty their pocket change! David and I, in turn, spent time immersing ourselves in all manner of onboard activity and otherwise getting to know the both the ship and the world of Carnival.
Two days after embarkation we arrived at our our first port of call - the country of Belize on the eastern coast of Central America. Belize was a fairly new cruise port at the time, if I recall, featuring not much else besides tacky tourist shops. Today, if I were to return to Belize, Mayan ruins would be at the top of my list of things to see, but 10 years ago, ancient artifacts were not at the top of must-see attractions for our family.
As this was their first time at sea, we wanted to do something the kids would enjoy, so we chose a snorkeling trip. I was determined to save our family lots of money, avoid the overpriced ship excursion, and spent many months prior researching various independent tours. We finally settled on a well-recommended vendor in the cruise community. We communicated with the company back and forth, being certain that the timing would work with the ship schedule. It was a well-thought-out plan, and we were ready for snorkeling. I patted myself on the back for my incredible tour-planning skills. However, as sometimes happens in life, things don't always go according to plan.
For starters, Belize was a tender port. Our meeting up with the tour at the appointed time would depend on the arrival of the ship into port on time and the ability to be on the first tender. Carnival had a seemingly organized method of issuing tender tickets, and an announcement was made to head to an appointed area to pick up tickets, specifically at 9:00 a.m. and, as they firmly stated, not a moment before. No Ma'am, they would not jump the gun and play unfair. How noble, I thought.
We arrived at 8:40 a.m. expecting a line of eager tender passengers. What we found were many people with tickets already in hand well before we arrived. So much for fair play! Needless to say, we only landed tickets for the second tender. We arrived to the dock just after 10:30 a.m., and our snorkel boat was nowhere in sight.
After asking around at the pier, we sadly discovered that the snorkel trip had left just minutes before we arrived. The boat was gone!

My heart sank, and I felt as small as a mouse. David and the girls knew how bad I felt and bravely tried to cheer me up, my two patient girls bravely hiding their disappointment. Sure, there were other vendors pedaling their tours. However, I was in a strange new land and a bummed-out state of mind, and was not ready to risk another bad decision. We walked around the ports - and, yes, much moping on my part was involved. We checked out a few shops, discovered we really weren't having much fun, and then headed back to the ship.
Yeah, this is about all I remember from Belize ~

On the upside, the ship was very enjoyable without the crowds, and we had the pool to ourselves.
Why, you might ask, didn't we just call the snorkel boat when we knew we would be late?
I have no answer. I suspect we had no cell phones at the time. I did call the company upon return home to find out what happened, and they apologized, saying they had other people on the boat and, unfortunately couldn't wait any longer. They were nice enough to refund our deposit, even though it was not their policy to do so. Absolutely no complaints there.
So - Belize was a bust - at least for us in that moment of time. I immediately vowed never to book another independent cruise tour ever again, especially one with a tender port. Of course, I didn't listen to me and, in fact, went on to book several fine local tours in the years ahead with smooth sailing and no issues.
By the way, our interest in ancient ruins has blossomed since then, having seen the magnificent structures by the sea at Tulum, and we hope to one day return to Belize for another more interesting look at what the country has to offer.

My last cruise as a waiter on Carnival Conquest was one to remember. My section was filled with twenty coeds just graduated from college: all 22, brainy, and beautiful. These women wanted to party and indulge in every aspect of the Fun Ships they could. This meant lethal flirting with their hapless waiter, even in ports (accompanying pic is with them in Cozumel). I was in heaven.
At the end of the first dinner, my ladies remained long after. They asked a flurry of questions, like “Are you single?” “Can you party with guests?” “Show us your cabin!”. The question that got me in trouble, however, was unexpected. “Why don’t you dance during dinner like the other waiters?”
“I’m management next cruise,” I explained. “They don’t want me looking like a fool in front of staff I’ll be in charge of.”
“No fair!” they cried. “We want you to dance for us!”
“Only if you dance for me,” I retorted. The gauntlet thrown, all twenty rose and I was surrounded by spinning, whirling, and gyrating bodies. I looked on helplessly, realizing I was surely to be out-done by these women. “Come on! Join us!” Realizing they wouldn’t take no for an answer, I jokingly counter-offered, “I won’t do dinner dances, but I’ll do one better. My last day as a waiter, I’ll do a striptease.”
Their applause indicated my jest was not taken as such.
The final night came. As always, serving the graduates was not work, but pleasure. They were patient for all things barring wine service. We laughed and flirted shamelessly. All week they had tried to kiss me in the dining room. The kiss became a game for us all, a silly little prize that both sides refused to relinquish. The challenge was spearheaded by a pretty lass named Jessica. The night drew to a close, but they remained to finish their wine. Neighboring stations emptied, leaving us a solitary island of gaiety. “Last night!,” Jessica called. “Where’s our strip tease?”
All twenty cheered and began chanting, “Strip! Strip! Strip!”
“I can’t,” I replied lamely, fishing for an excuse, “I would need a stage. And there’s no music.”
“Regina!” they cried to my neighboring waitress. Though busy readying for the morning, one table had been forgotten and was completely empty. Only then did I realize it had not been forgotten at all: Regina yanked the table cloth free to reveal an ideal stage. “But there’s still no music,” I observed gratefully. Smirking, Regina signaled a hostess and suddenly ‘I’m Too Sexy’ blared through the restaurant at tremendous volume. I had been set up. But sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do.
I leapt onto the table and began a bad dance, whipping off my bow tie and flinging it around my head. With surely the most awkward moves ever witnessed, I flung off my vest and began unbuttoning my shirt. Cheers roared from the graduates. Applause echoed from waiters. Hostesses leered. Chanting to the beat rose from everywhere. Then the maitre D’ entered the room.
I stopped mid-swing, stunned. But the coeds were just getting started. They rushed from their seats to yank me off the table. Hands tore at my chest. Buttons popped out, flying in all directions. My shirt was half ripped off before I could stop it. I had heard that women got far wilder then men at strip clubs, but this was ridiculous. I even felt my belt slipped free! Quickly I gripped my pants before they were yanked down. I began bellowing, not unlike an elephant seal under attack. Alas, there was no denying the authority of dozens of red-tipped fingernails. Here I was living my fantasy since puberty, yet was fighting like mad!
One would think the action would stop with the approach of the maitre D’. One would be wrong. He just grinned and let it flow, reserving the moment for future blackmail.
By Brian David Bruns, author of national best-seller Cruise Confidential.
Pics of the people and places I blog about are on my website and FB pages, join me!
www.BrianDavidBruns.com
https://www.facebook.com/BrianDavidBruns

When you cruise, do you normally bring your best friend along? Sometimes? If you can tolerate sharing a cabin with them for the whole cruise? Well, I'm not sure what kind of bff's y'all have, but I've got the world's ultimate best friend... a few of them actually. Yeah, we actually met on the high seas some years ago when I sailed Carnival Miracle from Ft. Lauderdale.
So, how'd we meet? I'm glad you asked! I was walking around the buffet getting my grub on for a few days, paying nobody any mind. Then, I walked to my room one day to change my clothes after yet another feasting I had on Lido. I roamed through my suitcase to see what I was "in the mood" to wear and came across the perfect outfit for the evening... or so I thought. I go to put it on and um... yeah, it wasn't working. I looked like Cedric the Entertainer trying to squeeze into a Michael Jackson get-up. Translation: I looked a hot funky mess! So I ruffled some more through my clothes and voila! My new cruising bff and I were officially linked by the hip... literally.
Since my clothing options were getting fewer and fewer, the one sure thing I knew I could put on besides my sun-block was my blue and white pair of swimming trunks! Oh yeah, not only were they my saving grace, but they have these things called elastic waistbands that are perfect for any man having a food bulge in their mid-section. And yes, I spent an entire two days on Carnival Miracle proudly wearing my swimming trunks... my cruising bff!
Since then, I have become more healthy as many of you may know. I've lost 60 pounds, workout daily (even on cruises), but I still have my cruising bff on standby in my suitcase just in case I need a little more grace while on vacation, hehe. Do you purposely pack elastic clothes while on cruise vacations? If you do, are swimming trunks your #1 choice? Feel free to share your thoughts below! Be sure to check back next week as I share another funny story with you from my high seas adventures!
Also, let's not forget to remember the legacy of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. as we nationally observe his birthday today. He is the biggest rock-star in my book and truly one of the greatest American ever produced! He lived a life undaunted and had a dream that I'm proud to be a part of. Check out my personal tribute to him on The Ocean Escape.

Do you ever wonder if you are merely cheap or actually a horrible person? Tipping is highly variable from culture to culture, and even gratuity-savvy passengers are lost at sea on cruise ships. What tips are expected, what’s appropriate, what’s… ‘normal’?
Confusion surrounding this issue was intentionally created by the cruise lines themselves. The open secret is that the majority of staff is paid hardly anything at all. Cruise lines hide this behind gratuities. Especially with the rise to prominence of Carnival Cruise Lines—catering to overwhelmingly American and, thusly, gratuity-expectant guests—cruise lines realized they can get a whole lot more staff for a whole lot less money. This wage model was adopted by nearly every major cruise line, in many ways fueling the explosive growth of the industry throughout the 80’s and 90’s. Prior to that, cruising was exceptional and reserved for the well-to-do. Now it’s a common vacation open to anyone budget-minded.
When I was a waiter on Carnival, my monthly salary was around fifty bucks (US $50). That’s for working 12-15 hours a day, seven days a week. Tips kept me alive. (True, tips added up to less than the U.S.’s average minimum wage, but that’s a completely different subject.) Ah, but how much to tip? Even tip-savvy passengers had no basis from which to quantify their appreciation. In America, 15% gratuity is standard for acceptable service, 20% for good service. But on ships, individual meals were not broken down so numerically. So what’s 20%? In my case, Carnival created automatic gratuities for passengers to opt in on for the whole cruise. Waiters knew any passenger who opted out of this service, whatever their reason, invariably skimped on tips. We hated those people. They almost never tipped enough. Especially in my case, because I was a terrible waiter. (if you want to see how bad, read my book Cruise Confidential!)
Over time, some services became auto-tipped and others not. Yet every crew member was clamoring for tips, even those without any reason whatsoever for getting any (read: maitre D’s). And what about room stewards, who had no inferred costs for their services? Well-intentioned passengers were confused all over again. Cruise lines used this confusion to their advantage. A great example of this comes from P&O Cruise Lines. Prior to 2012, their managing director Carol Marlow was promoting P&O's value-for-money by pointing out that unlike some of its competitors, their company did not automatically add tips. Then, in April 2012, P&O began requiring auto-tips of £3.10 per person, per day. To explain the complete reversal, Marlow said,“Tipping has always been an integral part of the cruise experience but sometimes our passengers tell us they've been confused over whether or when to leave a cash tip for their waiters and cabin stewards. Our new tipping policy aims to remove this confusion in much the same way as most restaurants these days add a suggested gratuity to the bill.”
Nowadays, the majority of cruise lines ‘take care’ of their staff with mandatory tipping. Good! If and when a cruise line offers pre-paid gratuities—and you have a soul—do it. Concerns about the line failing to properly distribute the money are rising, but that’s step two. Step one is getting the cash out of the hands of us passengers (ships are great at that!). The best thing, of course, would be for cruise lines to remove tipping entirely. Basic wages should be enhanced to reflect that and the cost built into the basic price of a cruise. Crew could rely on a regular, guaranteed income. We’ve all had to slave away for absolutely no money at one time or another due to bad service outside our own arena. Plus it’s easier on guests because tips are a hidden cost. Here’s a rough breakdown of current rates (US dollars, per day):
Carnival Cruise Lines $10.50
Celebrity Cruises $12-16
Costa Cruises $8-10.50
Cunard $11.50- 15
Disney Cruise Line $12.50-14
Fred Olsen Lines $6.50
Holland America Line $11.50
MSC Cruises $8-10
Norwegian $12.50
Oceania Cruises $14.25-19.50
Princess Cruises $12-12.75
Royal Caribbean Int. $12-14
By Brian David Bruns, author of national best-seller Cruise Confidential.
Pics of the people and places I blog about are on my website and FB pages, join me!
www.BrianDavidBruns.com
https://www.facebook.com/BrianDavidBruns

Let's go back a few years when I sailed Norwegian Sun from Miami. Great ship. Amazing cruise. It was the morning I was supposed to disembark the vessel and I was a little sad. You know how after you have such a great time on a cruise, you don't want to leave? Yeah, that feeling was hovering over me like a cloud. In fact, another cruise was awaiting me that afternoon.This was the first time I decided to do a back-to-back cruise. You see, as soon as I disembarked Norwegian Sun, I was jumping in my rental car, driving north and boarding Regal Empress for a cruise to the Bahamas from Port Everglades. Very rarely do I remember my hunger pains (because I don't miss a single meal) but I vividly remember this day -- I was incredibly hungry!
I got up, showered, dressed and made a b-line for the breakfast buffet. Things were going great. I got a table on the patio area, aft of the ship, had a nice a Miami breeze caressing my bald head and Mr. Sun (the real guy, not the ship) was having fun coloring me because I could sense the blackness of my skin getting darker with each minute -- but it was greatly welcomed! So I had my food there, enjoying everything from fruit to pancakes and even a piece of smoked salmon, but I still longed for something "extra." Then I remembered I got a glance of something on the buffet I have been eating ever since I was a child: cinnamon buns. Cinnamon buns are my guilty pleasure and since I was on vacation, I thought I'd indulge in one... or two. Plus, the sun was having too much fun with my skin (I thought I'd give him a break).
So I got in line at the double-sided buffet, keeping my eyes on the pan that had the cinnamon buns in it. Mentally, I was already downing like two. As I got closer and closer to the pan, I realized the number of cinnamon buns started becoming less and less. I began praying, "Lord, please let me just get one. I just want one." My turn was next! Finally, I'll get to have one! And guess what? There was exactly one cinnamon bun left in the pan! So I grabbed the tongs, situated my plate and then... then... another pair of tongs comes into view. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. From out of nowhere, this older gentlemen, reached across two pans of food and placed his tongs RIGHT ON TOP OF THE ONLY CINNAMON BUN LEFT! Was this really happening?
I had a decision to make: I could be the good Christian guy my mom raised me to be, or I could be the hungry Black man getting what he wanted at any cost. Well, since my mom wasn't around, and since my stomach started singing loudly, I decided to go for it. I looked at him. He looked at me, then he opened his tongs and clasped them around the cinnamon bun. I thought, "This guy CAN'T be serious, can he?" So I got my tongs and clasped it from the other direction... and began pulling it back. Next thing I know, the cinnamon bun is back in the pan and we keep pushing each other's tongs back. The people in line were laughing and I uttered, "This ain't funny! You don't know the code? Well let me break it down for you: S-T-O-P! You never come between a hungry Black man and his food! Didn't your momma teach you?" After saying that, the laughs reached new heights and I notice a crowd spectating this happening like it was the SuperBowl. Needless to say, I won the tongs battle and the man was so angry, he threw his tongs on the ground. Yeah! Who was hungry now? It wasn't me! But he should have known better not to challenge "Hungry Black Man 3000!"
So I enjoyed my cinnamon bun, cleaned up my dining area and headed off the ship knowing if another person ever decides to challenge me with tongs on another cruise ship, they'll meet their match... and they better pray I'm not ravenous! So bring it! But seriously, don't you think that guy was rude? Reaching over those pans to get into the cinammon bun pan, then putting HIS tongs on [what was about to be] MY food! The nerve of some people! Good thing I did the Christian thing. Well, until next Monday's post, y'all have a cruisetacular week!

The dream Alaska cruise is booked, air fare reserved and pre and post-cruise hotel stays arranged. Now comes the hard part - deciding what to see and do when we get to the Last American Frontier. With only a day in Skagway, Ketchikan and Juneau, the choices won't be easy.
While I enjoy touring famous cities and landmarks from the comfort and safety of a vehicle, as I grow older and cruise more, I find myself wanting to experience sightseeing in a more active and thrilling way. This is a big leap for an indoor girl with a fairly sedentary lifestyle. Since my travel bucket list has grown longer than my life expectancy, I want to make certain each tour is special and an event to remember. It must be the kind of activity that rises above and beyond my comfort zone, which currently sits on a pretty low threshold. Just as I fear being in the limelight (see my previous post "No, I don't want to be a volunteer ..."), I am a huge whimp when it comes to trying new things - especially when they invite potential injury. However, with the encouragement of my husband David, who is not at all afraid to venture into new territory, I am learning to spread my wings.
 
I could plan a cruise excursion the easy way, by simply viewing the line's glossy tour booklet, choosing and booking a pre-planned excursion. All neatly packaged, wrapped and available for every cruise passenger, they are the ultimate in convenience. But what fun is that? After all, last year I planned a small private group tour of the Scottish Highlands with 14 fellow passengers, and it turned out to be the highlight of our cruise. So you see, I have discovered alternative ways, albeit involving many hours of research and, in my case, obsessive rumination over very detail of the tour.
This is not to belittle cruise lines for providing a valuable service. I have taken advantage of several cruiseline excursions, and they have more than satisfied my growing thirst for adventure. The first such cruise excursion we took part in was Swimming with Stingrays in Grand Cayman over 10 years ago. This sounded like just the adventure David and I were looking for, so I promptly reserved the boat to Stingray City the minute it opened for booking on the web. The booking process was simple alright, but it still left me with lots of questions about stingrays, in general. I spent every spare moment for months reading everything I could get my hands on to find the answers to my most pressing questions: "What if I step on one? Will it bite me? Will it stab me to death with that stinger?". Keep in mind, this was before the famous Steve Irwin a/k/a Crocodile Hunter incident. As a result, I spent months perfecting the "stingray shuffle" in my living room.

If that weren't enough, to fully appreciate these mysterious, graceful aquatic creatures, I needed to learn how to snorkel. All summer long, I practiced in our backyard pool until I could breathe through that tube without drowning myself, a hurdle I am proud to say I soon overcame. All my anxiety over stingrays, I am happy to say, was for naught. The experience was very cool and I survived unharmed. On a second trip to Stingray City with my daughters on a later cruise, I even did the obligatory stingray-kissing photo op - how touristy!

The second must-do-before-I-die adventure would be horseback riding. Not that I knew how to ride a horse. Everything I knew about horses I learned from TV's "Mr. Ed." Oh, I had been on small ponies as a child - you know, the country fair type ride, where someone leads you and your little pony around a circle the size of a hula hoop. I always wanted a horse (didn't every little girl?) and remember begging my dad to dig up his prize vegetable garden to build a horse barn. Of, course he didn't, but I could dream! I was overjoyed to see the excursion listed as available through the ship while docked in St. Maarten. However, I was not feeling the love when I read of disappointing experiences through the ship. I decided that this was one I was going to plan on my own for myself and two daughters. So, once again, I was on a mission to find the best stables on the island with the grandest of horses and the friendliest of guides - one with a lot of patience for a novice like myself.
After months of research, I found a highly recommended stable outfit on the French side of the island. Our family rented a minivan and headed off to the stables. My husband who is highly allergic to most animals watched from a distance as we were fitted for head gear and a horse suited to our weight and size. My horse was huge! Funny how they don't look that big in the movies. How do those guys in the westerns leap on and off their horse with so little effort? I couldn't even reach my foot high enough for the stirrup - my arthritic knees don't bend that way! "Ummm ... Excuse me," I timidly said. "I am going to need some help here." After some initial shock, the young stable hand lead my gallant animal and I over to the big stepladder, and I climbed up to the saddle. I felt more than a little foolish while the other few people in our party simply saddled up with very little assistance. Even my girls, who had never been within a mile of a horse in their lives, made it look so easy. With some brief instruction on how to maneuver the animal, off we went on our equine adventure. The horse was very gentle and knew the trail well, so thankfully I didn't have to do much with the reins. Slowly riding along wooded trails and gorgeous beaches - nudist beaches, I might add - it turned out to be one of the most thrilling things I had ever done!

This brings me to our third planned outdoorsy thing on the list: Bears - or observing them in their natural habitat as they fish for salmon in Alaska water. And because the only way to get to the rainforest creek to see the bears is by air, we will need to fly in a floatplane to get there! A double feature - two brand new exciting and thrilling experiences in one shot! Are you sensing a theme here? Yes, animals and wilderness. This indoor girl is getting off the couch and into the wide open world!
... And now the search for bear and flight begins! Stay tuned ...

Yes, cruise ship security is corrupt. Not paid off to smuggle drugs or anything—oh no. Something far more criminal…
2AM. I nervously entered the crew cabin way down on B Deck. Victorio, a serious-looking Filipino, motioned me to sit. Both bunks already held two or three men, the bathroom door opened to reveal several more. The floor of both tiny chambers was fully filled by coolers. I wiggled in beside the others. Victorio asked, “You bring it?”
A flash of nerves jolted me. Shaking my head, I defended, “I just found out an hour ago. I’ll bring it tomorrow.”
Victorio regarded me solemnly for a moment. The cabin was silent, but for the surge of waves outside the bulkhead. “We do things different than you Americans…” he said slowly.
Suddenly he grinned. “In the Philippines, birthday means we buy the drinks, not get gifts. So have a drink. We have an American, boys!”
Cheers came for diversity. Drinks came to my hand. Nearby bristled two bottles of Johnny Walker Blue Label scotch, two Black Labels, three bottles of Chivas Regal, and two coolers icing Coronas. He predicted by 5AM all would be empty. We feasted on traditional Filipino foods—or close as could be made aboard. My favorite were strips of cold beef marinated in lime juice and exotic seasonings. I sensed they were pleased I liked a taste from their home.
By 3:30AM the party was really rocking (as much as was possible with no women present, anyway), when someone brought out a small, black torture device. Terror seized my soul. It was a karaoke machine, complete with microphone and two large speakers—so large, in fact, Victorio had to sleep with one in his bunk. Cheers resounded in eardrum-crumpling waves.
“You can’t turn that on,” I protested. “It’s 3:30AM!”
“We got it covered,” Victorio assured me.
For some sinister reason, karaoke was a great joy for Filipinos, with a particular passion for rock ballads. Invoking Bon Jovi prompted hands over their hearts. One waiter, Jeffry, was so talented that he entertained guests in the dining room. His crystalline voice cut through the chatter every time. His cover of Michael Bolton was barely distinguishable from the real thing. And Jon Secada? They must have been twins. But that night Jeffry did not want to sing. He wanted me to sing. “Who wants to hear Brian sing Elvis?” The cabin reverberated with a roar of approval.
Spontaneity—or more likely, alcohol—encouraged me. “Filipino party: Filipino music. Bring it.”
“I thought you liked singing Elvis,” he said.
“Oh, I’ll sing it like Elvis all right.”
The television featured a surging tropical beach while Filipino lyrics passed by staggeringly fast. Well, too fast for one who couldn’t read Tagalog. I had hoped their native language didn’t use Roman characters so I could wiggle out of it. No such luck. Soon my best Elvis voice sang a sappy love ballad to twenty drunken Filipino men—and the entire B Deck of Carnival Conquest.
“Tinapon ng lalaki ang bola sa pader… something… something fried banana sandwich… thank ya, thank ya vury much…. Say, what did I just say?”
“You just tried to say ‘the boy threw the ball at the wall’.”
“How romantic. A hunk’a-hunk’a burnin’ love I’m not.”
A pounding at the door revealed an insanely muscled security officer. Silence fell. Two more men flanked this largest Asian man ever. He frowned angrily, flexed his muscles.
“You’re in BIG trouble,” he boomed. “I agreed to let you pay me to leave the party alone… on the condition I get to be the first to sing... after I get off 4!”
By Brian David Bruns, author of national best-seller Cruise Confidential.
Pics of the people and places I blog about are on my website and FB pages, join me!
www.BrianDavidBruns.com
https://www.facebook.com/BrianDavidBruns

So how'd you get started cruising? Do you remember the ship, line and ports of call you visited? I know I do... just like it was yesterday! I can't believe it has been nearly ten years ago, but I sailed Carnival Imagination to Belize and Key West from Miami, Florida. Oh, and what a cruise it was! The food, people and did I say the food? I was a wee little lad when I first cruised and Imagination would have never been around if my mom didn't take her first cruise the year before. She went with a bunch of her girlfriends and had a blast! But I noticed the strangest thing when she returned.
Besides the sun burn, loads of sovuneirs for her one and only (yeah, that's me) and the amazing pics she shared, her stories were so mezmorizing. She told me everything! "Shon! They had this... and that. Oh, and one night they did this... and that. You would have really loved it!" I hung onto every word like a good, attentive child (because I never did any wrong, hehe). Then she started going in-depth about the kids programs and I really started having a fit! I was at a lost. I thought she went with a bunch of adults? How did she know so much about Camp Carnival? Was this a set-up? Nonetheless, she REALLY got me going then and I begged and pleaded and prayed and hoped and begged some more until she finally gave in and took me on my first cruise!
So, mom and I sat down and narrowed our cruise selection to three ships--Carnival Fascination, Carnival Imagination or Carnival Triumph--and she let ME make the final call (how nice of her, right?)! Well, the rest is history. Now nearly 30 cruises later, I'm still sailing the high seas! From Costa Cruises to NCL and even MSC, I have found that momma truly does know best. So if your mom tells you that a cruise is something you'll love, you better listen because you never know. You may go from vacation lover, to passion sharer, to enjoying an addiction worth living for! Until we talk ship next week--Shon!
Can't wait a week until my next blog post? Cruise on over to The Ocean Escape which is the other blog I author with cruisetacular goodness! Your ships await!

Some people go to great lengths to ‘protect’ themselves from cruise-borne germs. I’m not talking about the obsessive-compulsive disorder folks who have a legitimate obsession. I’m talking about the sheltered, paranoid freaks who no longer enjoy the benefit of healthy immune systems because they have utterly destroyed every bacterium on their persons with anti-bacterial gels, creams, and probably suppositories. Many a cruise guest enters his/her cabin and promptly wipes down every conceivable well-used surface with disinfectant wipes: light switches, door knobs, faucets, and telephone. Some go so far as to place the TV remote control in a quart-sized Ziploc bag.
I don’t blame you, gentle reader. Take a few precautions to feel better. But rest assured, the ship crew has already done this. Every homeport, room stewards disinfect every high touch item in the cabin, especially in the bathroom. That bathroom has about 400 times LESS bacteria than your office desk. But go ahead and wipe down that toilet seat again. Better yet, bring those disposable paper seats. Right?
Remember cruise ships clean everything above and beyond what’s required by land businesses. They’re required to. Indeed, I bleached restaurant and kitchen stuff daily until my fingers literally split. Yes, we waiters bleach those menus, salt and pepper shakers, even backs of the chairs. Stewards bleach those elevator buttons and rails. If there does happen to be a virus outbreak on board, we double wash all plates, double wash all glasses, double wash all silver. Feel safer?
YOU SHOULDN’T. Bwah-ha-ha!
Why do I taunt you thus? Because you, gentle germophobe, brought loads of bacteria with you. Take your toothbrush, for example. You put it in your mouth twice a day (well, you should). Yet your mouth contains billions of bacteria. Scientists have identified more than 700 different types of microbes in the average human mouth [WebMD]. Yet if you don’t cap that wet toothbrush, you are potentially contaminating it by merely flushing the toilet (paper-seat and all). Researchers discovered flushing the toilet sends a spray of bacteria- and virus-contaminated water droplets into the air. These float in the air for at least two hours after each flush before landing on surfaces—like your toothbrush [university of Arizona Department of Soil, Water and Environmental Science].
What about the toiletries you brought with you? Ladies, how often do you disinfect every tube, handle, and applicator in your make-up bag? Guys, you bleachin’ handles on those razors?
Remember, you need bacteria to stay healthy. Why do you think babies put everything in their mouths? They’re building up their immune systems! The paranoia of all-things-filthy is predominantly an American trait. We are relentlessly barraged by advertising for cleaning products. It’s gone overboard. Why, even Healthline’s website spread the alarm that washed laundry left unattended in a machine, even a few minutes, is like “the fertile crescent for germs.”
If you have a compromised immunity system, by all means take precautions. But sensible precautions suffice for most of us. I worked on ships four years and never got sick once. I survived countless Norovirus outbreaks without incident. The real culprits are our own bad habits. For cryin’ out loud, just wash your hands after using the toilet and before you eat. You’d be shocked how few people actually do that. On Conquest, the captain even had to publicly humiliate himself by singing “Happy Birthday” to himself on the PA system to drive home how long you should soap those hands (CDC says hum it twice).
The best thing, of course, is sterilization from the inside out: down some shots of booze. Helps with a great many issues.
Brian David Bruns is author of Unsinkable Mister Brown, bronze medal winner at the 2012 London Book Festival.

Congratulations to my latest cruise book, Unsinkable Mister Brown, which won the bronze at the London Book Festival. This marks the second international award for the book, (also took the silver medal in Paris). For those not familiar with my Cruise Confidential series, Unsinkable Mister Brown is the third book, but actually a prequel and a good starting place. I say an excerpt is in order! Here’s how to get a job on a cruise ship: persistence, bribes, and a lot of lies!
An hour later we were sitting in the office of Ovidiu, the Romanian recruiting agent for Carnival Cruise Lines. He was a slender man with a handsome face, a very handsome wardrobe, and an extremely handsome office. His suite comprised the entire second floor of a brick building, featuring numerous windows looking into a lush interior court. Light filtered in through an angled glass skylight and past his mezzanine entrance, making it look like a bridge over a jungle. “Americans can’t handle ships,” he said.
“So I hear,” I replied, giving Bianca an amused look. She sat in the chair beside mine, looking relaxed but serious.
“What is it you think I can do for you?” Ovidiu asked. “I am a recruiter for Romanians, not Americans. There are no American recruiters, of course.”
“So I hear,” I repeated. “Why is that?”
“Because none apply,” he replied thoughtfully, leaning back. “Why would you want to? The work is very hard, and the money is very small.”
Bianca raised an eyebrow, and Ovidiu hastily added, “For an American.”
“I’m not thinking big,” I said. “It’s just a waiter job. I’ve been in restaurants for a decade.”
“Not on ships, you haven’t,” he pointed out. “Do you know computers?”
“He knows computers,” Bianca interrupted, before I could protest.
“Other than doctors, who are supernumeraries anyway, and entertainers, who have their own agencies, the only position I can even think of for an American would involve computers.”
“I just want to be a waiter, man,” I repeated.
Ovidiu leaned forward skeptically. “Why?”
“My reasons are irrelevant.”
“No, they’re not,” Ovidiu insisted. “Why would they bother with someone who will just quit? They’ll want to know your story before they even think of meeting you. And believe me, they’ll need to meet you.”
“I want to be with Bianca,” I explained. “If we have the same job, we can be together. That simple.”
“I see,” he said, nodding. “Well, in my ten years at Carnival, I’ve never seen even one American. I would not even talk to you, but Bianca is a good employee and a friend. Again, what is it you think I can do for you?”
“You can think Romanian-style,” Bianca answered for me. “Not American-style.”
Ovidiu thought for a moment, frowning. “No, that won’t work. The bribes are to convince me, and you don’t need to worry about that. Really, Bianca, I would sign him on if I could. I can’t.” He opened a drawer from his desk and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. We declined his offer, so he casually lit one for himself. He leaned towards me, elbows on the desk. “You want to know why Bianca doesn’t need to bribe me?”
“Suddenly I’m not so sure.”
“Bianca is the only one who almost beat me. Almost, of course.”
I looked at Bianca, but she said nothing. Her delicate wiggle of satisfaction was corroboration enough.
“As agent to cruise ships, my job is to screen people. If I like them, and there is a job opening, I find the right place for them. Bianca applied for the restaurants. That’s the highest paid job, so everybody applies for it first. It is also the toughest, so I don’t let them by easily.” He paused, grinned, and offered Bianca a cigarette again. This time she accepted, leaning forward to accept the light with a creak of leather skirt.
“She said she worked at a certain restaurant. I called the owner and he said, ‘oh, of course, she has worked here for years!’ That, of course, only meant she could lie and bribe. Romanian-style. Turns out, she only volunteered there for a summer.”
Bianca shrugged, explaining, “I needed to learn restaurants.”
“I knew she was lying, but couldn’t catch her. She was too smart. She had asked all of her waitress friends penetrating questions and listened close. I asked her this and that, and of her experiences here and there. She had an answer for all of it. The performance was amazing.”
Bianca laughed, and added, “Until Ovidiu pulled his bloody secret weapon from the filing cabinet!”
Reflecting upon what I knew of Romanians thus far, I presumed this meant a large knife.
“A linen napkin,” Ovidiu clarified. “I told her ‘You said you know half a dozen napkin folds. Show me.’ She wilted before my very eyes, like a Gypsy had spit in her ice cream. I told her to relax, go have a cigarette, then come back. I had her paperwork done by then.”
“All that to be a waiter?” I asked. “It’s not rocket science.”
Ovidiu leaned back again. He casually blew his smoke into the air, then looked me in the eye. “You have no idea what you’re getting into, do you?”
The London Book Festival awards ceremony will be held Jan. 24th in London. Until then, the most popular formats of Unsinkable Mister Brown will be 50% off. See my website for details at http://brev.is/mS94

As I was making travel plans for an upcoming winter week in the Grand Canyon, and wondering why the blazes we would choose the month of February and risk icy roads and snow to get a glimpse of this natural wonder, my thoughts took me back to one frightening wintry drive on a snow-packed highway in the stately Green Mountains of Vermont.
Our daughter, Jenn, was attending a four-year E-game design program at Champlain College in Burlington, Vermont. I had made my semi-annual four-hour drive north to fetch her and her things for the semester break. I always looked forward to the December ride up. It was like a little mini-vacation, with a night or two at the Holiday Inn Express, Christmas shopping at the festive Church Street Marketplace, and perhaps a stroll by beautiful Lake Champlain.
It was a very cozy, small-town New England Christmas experience, indeed, including snow-covered hills, crispy cold air and holiday lights illuminating the darkness. For the most part, the weather cooperated on those December trips. Not to say that the weather was perfect. After all, I live in New England, where the saying around here is “If you don’t like the weather now, just wait a minute … .” It was not uncommon on the drive up north to experience a few snow squalls, periods of driving rain or fog in the span of an hour, which would make for some challenging driving, especially through the mountains after dark, but was nothing that my little Hyundai Santa Fe couldn’t handle. Little did I know how badly I would underestimate Mother Nature on the return trip home this particular December weekend.
It’s not like I didn’t know snow was predicted. I saw the forecast prior to leaving home and even made a reservation for another night at a hotel just in case we couldn’t make the trip home. On the morning of our scheduled ride home, I watched the local news and weather. Schools were canceled, but the timing of the storm was such that we might beat most of it if we left early. So “Jenn, what do you want to do?”, I asked. She replied, as I knew she would. “I want to go home.” I called my husband at home in Rhode Island. “David, what should I do?” I already knew what his answer would be. “Don’t risk it – stay another night“. I am an indecisive person, and I was torn. Should I listen to my all-knowing and wise husband of 35 years and play it safe, or should I make my daughter happy and take the risk? Jenn and I pondered the question further over breakfast and, for better or worse, decided to make a run for it.
Anyone who has traveled I-89 through Vermont knows that it is a long, lonely road, and the exits are few and far between. The plan was to drive from the college and head down I-89 south to the next exit, a fairly short span. From that point, there would be no looking back. If conditions looked too risky by the time we got to the next exit, we’d simply stop and get a room for the night and ride out the storm. We reached the next exit, and although the snow was falling steadily, it didn’t seem too bad. “Hey, we can do this,” I attempted to convince myself, and armed with our trusted cell phones, off we went on our merry way home. We didn’t have to proceed very far to realize we’d made the wrong choice, and by that time we were well past the point of no return.
By the time we traveled the long stretch to the next exit for the town of Stowe, the conditions were white-out. There was no one on the road except for enormous SUVs which flew past us like it was just another day, not even batting an eye, I suppose. For me, it was a different story. I was crawling along the snowy, untreated roadway, my knuckles turning white from the death grip of the steering wheel. Oh, why didn’t I buy a four-wheel drive vehicle! To make matters worse, my wipers were caked with ice and snow, making it difficult to navigate. I was driving blindly.
Unable to see anything through the windshield, I exited the highway at Stowe, parked on the side of the road and cleaned the wipers and windshield, grateful for the can of de-icer I brought with me. The road was desolate and snow covered, surrounding us with nothing but white. I did not want myself and second-born child stranded here, and I was anxious to hurry up, clean the window and get out of there. Cell phone service was spotty at best. Safely back in the car, we stalled, slipped and slid our way back to the highway and continued on the long, slow mountain trek through the heavy snow, stopping to clean the wipers and windshield several times along the way. Even if we wanted to stop and hunker down in a roadside motor inn, it would require miles of driving down a snowy mountain road to find one, and I wasn’t willing to risk that. To ease our nerves, we loaded the CD player with our favorite tunes and sang along, hoping the time would pass more quickly … or at least I did. I think I recall Jenn sleeping part of the way. It wasn’t until about six hours later, when we reached the Massachusetts border, that we finally got some relief in the form of sleet and rain. I had never been so glad to see road slush in my life!
We arrived home safely that evening, at which time my husband gave me a good tongue lashing for putting our lives in such jeopardy, as I expected he would. Looking back, I realized that what we drove through was just normal New England winter weather. It wasn’t even that huge of a snow storm by Vermont standards. We didn’t get hurt, we didn’t get stranded, and we didn’t even drive into a snowbank. The only thing wounded were our nerves. It my not have been a blizzard, but as far as we were concerned, it may as well have been the storm of the century. It was simply the worst stuff I’ve ever had to drive through.
Grand Canyon in February? Absolutely! The flights and hotels are booked, and the road-hugging, safe SUV reserved. More importantly, I will have a back-up plan and the company of my husband who is far wiser than me.
 
Source

If your ship sinks and you’re stranded, without food or water, with only an open boat and your own resources, can you stay alive?
Sure!
This was proven in rather dramatic fashion by Frenchman Alain Bombard, who believed people could survive such trials. On October, 19, 1953 he voluntarily set off from the Canary Islands to cross the Atlantic in a 15 foot rubber boat. He intended to make it to the West Indies. Not a scrap of food. Not a drop of water. Just his clothes and an inflatable cushion.
Bombard believed that shipwreck survivors died drinking seawater simply because they waited too long to do so. From the time he set off, he drank 1.5 pints (.71 liters) of seawater every day. He supplemented this with water squeezed from fish caught with a makeshift harpoon. Gross? Yes. But not as bad as the raw plankton he swallowed. He would trail a cloth through the sea to capture the microscopic organisms, figuring if they could keep a whale alive, then he’d have no problem. Unlike a whale, which can gobble zillions of the stuff with one big mouthful, he struggled to get one or two teaspoons of it a day. After twenty days of this self-induced torture, he broke out in a painful rash.
But he wasn’t dead.
Not that the sea didn’t try. A storm within days of setting out nearly wrecked his little rubber boat. His sail ripped and the spare was blown away entirely. More distressing still was what else it blew away: his inflatable cushion. Knowing he could live without food and water, but not without a comfortable posterior, Bombard secured his craft with a sea anchor and jumped overboard after it. While he was diving, he discovered to his horror that the sea anchor was not working. This parachute-like device was tied to the boat and left to drag in the ocean, thus keeping the craft nearby. Without it, the current was sweeping the boat hopelessly out of reach. Luckily the sea anchor fixed itself—it had been caught in its own mooring line—and he was able to haul himself back aboard. Strangely, whether he retrieved the cushion or not was never revealed.
Weeks passed, but Alain Bombard did not die. He survived off of seawater, plankton, and whatever raw fish he could catch at the surface. On day 53 he hailed a passing ship to ask his position. Sadly, he had another 600 miles to go before reaching his intended destination. He seriously considered giving up, for had he not already vindicated his supposition that man could survive on sea water? After a meal on the ship, his spirits were revived, however, and he voluntarily returned to his little rubber boat.
On Christmas Eve he reached Barbados, having sailed more than 2,750 miles (4425 kilometers) in 65 days. He lost 56 pounds (25 kilograms), but was otherwise fine. And that was in an open boat with nothing. If your cruise ship goes down and you’re in a life raft, it has a roof. That makes a huge difference. Also, life rafts are equipped with emergency rations of food and water, and even fishing kits. Most importantly of all, however, is that modern life rafts have radio transponders. You won’t have to wait months. Probably not even days.
The moral of the story? If your ship goes down, don’t panic. Be awesome. You absolutely have it in you. It's just gonna taste really bad.
By Brian David Bruns, author of national best-seller Cruise Confidential.
Pics of the people and places I blog about are on my website and FB pages, join me!
www.BrianDavidBruns.com
https://www.facebook.com/BrianDavidBruns

Working midnight buffet, I sensed something was wrong. Ketchup bottles slid to port. All of them, in unison. Any sharp turn was amplified up here on deck 14, but Conquest continued to list further… further…. Silverware bundles tumbled off tables. Then plates. The ship keeled more. Waiters were ordered to the dish room to manually hold up stacks of plates and saucers. Glasses were deemed safe in their washing racks. But it was too late. Sharp crashes cried entire stacks of plates were gone… one… three… a cascade.
And Conquest kept listing.
Simultaneously two dozen ketchup bottles exploded on the tiles. Plates in hundreds shattered everywhere. I tripped over a plastic pitcher crushed open on the floor. In a flash the cream inside streaked fifty feet across the deck. Now I had to hold onto something to avoid falling myself. Then she righted. The chaos audibly lessened, but only for a moment. Conquest righted abruptly: too abruptly. Experienced crew members knew what that meant and abandoned property in favor of protecting themselves. I gripped the buffet as the floor tried to dump me starboard. The cream was still very much alive, a shocking white lightning bolt zigzagging into the dark. Watching the fluid move so violently made me realize there was something much greater to worry about. A waiter was stationed by the pool.
I scrambled over the slanting deck to the stern with great difficulty; to the pizza station, the grill, the pool. A gaping, empty hole was the pool, for all water had already pushed out to sweep across the restaurant before draining en masse to the deck below. The unsecured tables were piled high in a corner, entangled and dripping, legs worked together like the roots of a mangrove. Perched atop and soaked to the skin was a smiling Indonesian waiter.
A close call, but everyone was all right. What had happened?
Conquest had nearly collided with an errant barge while entering the busy mouth of the Mississippi River. A late-night sinking in the vast, black wastes of the ocean, a la Titanic, it was not. But was being ten miles from the unlit, swampy, forested bayou really any better? Because the water was not one degree above freezing didn’t mean a better chance at survival, it meant you’d linger… terrified… struggling… until exhaustion took you down, down to the dark depths.
So should you be scared of ships hitting each other?
No. How many big ship collisions have their been in the last century? In the modern cruising era, only the Andrea Doria—and that was in 1956. In a foggy night near Nantucket she was struck broadside by the MS Stockholm. The Andrea Doria listed so badly that half her lifeboats were unusable. Despite this, her modern ship design was so efficient she remained afloat for eleven hours, allowing all survivors to be safely evacuated. That’s less miracle and more engineering. Miraculous was Linda Morgan. The teenager was sleeping in her cabin with her half-sister when the ships struck. The blow somehow lifted her into the bow of the Stockholm and deposited her safely behind a bulkhead as the ships scraped along each other through the fog. Later, she was found wandering around asking for her mother in her native Spanish, much to the astonishment of the Swedish-speaking crew. Her sister was not so lucky, nor were 45 others directly struck by the collision. But nowadays ships have even more safety features, including zillions of inflatable life rafts that deploy automatically. They don’t need electronics, just physics. They can’t go wrong. Neither can you, if you stay calm. So enjoy your cruise!
By Brian David Bruns, author of national best-seller Cruise Confidential.
Pics of the people and places I blog about are on my website and FB pages, join me!
www.BrianDavidBruns.com
https://www.facebook.com/BrianDavidBruns

One would think that having my own, personal cabin would protect me from unwelcome surprises due to strangers. One would be wrong. First sight of my cabin on Sensation was a doozy. It was an interior guest cabin with beds against two different walls. The room reeked of fish.
“What’s with the separate bunks?” I asked my departing counterpart, Robin. “Aren’t you here with your girlfriend?” He was about to answer when a very tall, attractive woman entered. She was six feet tall and, while pleasantly slender, still built solid. Her long hair was naturally blonde, but the last six inches were dyed black. She wore a cowboy hat and boots over snug blue jeans. Vanessa was her name. She answered, “He stinks. He belches all night, so I want as much distance as possible.”
“You like cod liver oil?” she suddenly asked, prompting me to reply, “You asking me on a date?”
She gestured broadly to the room. “We’ve got plenty for ya. I’m sick of ‘em. If I smell one more damned pill, I’m gonna puke. Loverboy here don’t eat no food, jus’ lives off cod liver oil.”
A quick glance proved Vanessa wasn’t kidding. I counted no less than four bottles of cod liver pills of varying sizes. A fifth bottle lay on its side on a bunk behind where Robin sat, looking suspiciously as if it had dumped its contents between the cushions. A family-sized jar with a wide mouth was currently open, the smell of heavy fish oil almost visually emanated from it.
“Aren’t you supposed to refrigerate those once opened?” I asked in wonder. Robin scoffed, “Bah! You Yanks always worry about stuff like that.”
“So’d you tell him yet?” Vanessa asked Robin. He ignored her, but she pressed the question. Robin reacted strongly, and suddenly both were glaring at each other, postures frozen in defiance: she tall and leaning willowy-strong over him, he looking up to meet her with bulldog neck tensed and fists clenched. He finally spat, “Shut up, woman!”
Offended, Vanessa snatched up the nearest bottle of fish oil pills—the family-sized jar sans lid—and hurled it at him. Delicate globules of smelly fish oil sprayed wide, bouncing off Robin to clatter off the walls, the desk, the bed and everything else until they found every last corner.
Robin snarled, reaching for her. She gamely bounced back, but this was no game. They exchanged all manner of insults, voices rising until she screeched and he bellowed. Finally he muscled his way in to give her a solid slap across the face. The sound was shockingly loud. Violence in person is completely unlike anything in the movies. It was immediate, intimate, horrible.
“Oh!” she cried in surprise, hair flinging wild. I leapt in between the two of them, now shouting myself. I had no idea what was going on, even as I sensed this was not an unusual occurrence between them. Indeed, before I could interfere they both whirled upon me as one.
“This is none of your business, Yank!” Robin bellowed.
“I can handle this myself!” Vanessa echoed. She was already returning her attention to her adversary, adding, “I’m from Texas!”
Vanessa delivered a tremendous blow of her own, a wallop that sent Robin reeling. Before he had a chance to recover, she shoved him onto the bed. Next came a sharp crack of head hitting the bulkhead, and Robin collapsed. He gave a low moan, and Vanessa was atop him. Then they began madly kissing, passionately rolling across the tiny bunk… and grinding cod liver pills into my future mattress.
Excerpted from Ship for Brains [Cruise Confidential, Book 2] by Brian David Bruns (World Waters, 2011)

I stumbled onto this blog by “Crewbar Queen,” begun on two separate sites several years ago. She obviously held a staff position, based on the ease of her entry into ships. She didn’t see it that way. Her words, filled with anxiety and confusion, moved me. All crew can relate to her every word. Below is her only post.
“It’s Sunday and I joined the ship today. I am already exhausted. I look around as I type this, staring at the four walls of this closet size cabin with four beds in it. Soon my roommates will be off work so I am glad I was able to shower before they get back. One bathroom, four beds, one tv, one other Canadian, a Filipino Girl and a Romanian. I can't remember their names yet. The Romanian girl seemed stuck up as hell. In fact, so did most of the Romanian girls I met today.
“I wonder what I am doing here. From the second I stepped onboard today, I have been pulled in every direction, fitted for an ugly red uniform, thrown into a boring three hour safety class which pretty much has me fearing a Titanic-like experience now, and I have been lost three times.
“I am starting work tomorrow. I will just stand alongside some girl who seems to struggle with the English language, and learn as I go. 2000 guests got off the ship today and another 2000 got on. I am feeling a little overwhelmed at the amount of knowledge I need to have. Everyone here seems so intense. The Safety Manager flipped out on me and this other Canadian girl when we were late for class today. He actually threatened to send us back home before we left port. I never realized I would need to know how many lifeboats a ship carries, or how to evacuate the passengers. Isn't there a captain and some sort of safety squad for that??
“I kind of miss home. I packed my life into cardboard boxes in less than a week and left every comfort zone I was sheltered by. The small voice inside of me that I normally ignore finally spoke loud enough to get me here, and now it's still trying to talk me through it. This is supposed to be a chance to see the world and an opportunity to grow.
“Later - My roommates are back and I am sitting in bed. The Romanian girl’s name is Alina. She hardly said two words to me when she got here, but she sure is full of conversation for this guy in her bed now. All I can hear is her giggling and his deep Caribbean accent. I guess he's her boyfriend. I didn't realize we could fit another body into this cabin. Wait...is she really....what the f@#$, they are screwing!
“Does she not realize two other people are in this room? Does she seriously think this curtain that closes around each bunk is sound proof?? I open my curtain and look across at the bunk next to me where the Filipino girl, Carmella, is sitting. I look at her as if to say, "is this really happening?". She smiles obliviously and keeps staring at the TV, slurping her instant noodles. Clearly, this is something she is used to. I'm logging off for the night. I'm not to used to falling asleep to live porn, I think I'll pop in some of these ear plugs they gave us to drown out the sound of the engine and try to get some sleep.”
By Brian David Bruns, author of national best-seller Cruise Confidential.
Pics of the people and places I blog about are on my website and FB pages, join me!
www.BrianDavidBruns.com
https://www.facebook.com/BrianDavidBruns

The anatomy of a conch is a curious and unnerving thing.
“Yeah, mon,” said the Bahamian in the conch shack by the sea. “Take da skin and eyes right off, den trow dem in da water. Dey live by demselves for two more days.”
My friend Laureen leaned over the counter to get a better look. In Donny’s hands was a large conch shell and a knife. “No, uh, gills or organs or anything?” I asked. “Just the skin? Living?”
Donny demonstrated. Experienced fingers pulled from the shell a floppy, purplish alien-slug-thing. Using his knife, he expertly cut something slimy off of something else slimy—conch skin and eyes from conch body, presumably—then tossed it over his shoulder. Through the open rear of the shack it flew, to plop back into the Caribbean Sea.
Donny was a thick man of middle years. The majority of his hair was going grey, and the majority of his teeth were going away. He and his wife, Monique, were proprietors of The Burning Spot, one of a long row of conch shacks lining a pier nestled beneath the huge bridge leading to Paradise Island. The Burning Spot was the size of a garden shed, though the entire back was open to the sea. From the ceiling dangled all sorts of oddities mixed in with daily use items. Funky ornaments made of seashells swung in the breeze, bumping into grill brushes and spatter guards. The front wall of the shack folded into a counter, over which Laureen and I draped ourselves, beside a pile of conch shells strung together and heaped several feet high. As we watched Donny continue to intimately manipulate the conch, I pressed into the stack of conch shells.
“Gaaaaah!” I suddenly bellowed, stumbling backwards. Laureen teased me with a voice usually reserved for small children, “Was it all slimy and icky, Bri Bri?”
“I-I just got tentacled!” I protested. “These things are still alive!” Donny and Monique laughed hysterically. Monique buried her face into his broad shoulder, overcome with mirth.
“If their skin can stay alive for two days,” Laureen observed, poking me “Whatcha think a whole one can do?” I muttered, “I thought they were just shells. For decoration.”
“Decoration’s over dere, mon,” Donny said, gesturing above him with his dripping knife. In the sheltered corner hung an old and tired pom pom, heavy and limp, some strands stuck to a cast iron pan. There was obviously a story there, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear it. Watching Donny laugh maniacally holding a sharp knife in one hand, and a slain alien in the other, brought to mind all sorts of B-rated horror movie imagery.
“Donny catch dem every mornin’,” Monique said, to which I quipped, “Cheerleaders?”
Monique laughed heartily, revealing huge, brilliant teeth. “He wish! He jump right off de back here sunup. Dey come to de pier every day, like de ships.”
Donny’s continuing work freaked me out. From the bodies of the conchs he pulled weird, half toothpick-sized slivers of what looked like gelatin. Each such find brought delight, and he promptly popped them in his mouth. He loved ‘em. I didn’t have the stomach to ask if they were conch anatomy or parasites. Yet despite the grisly performance, the results were worthy. We took our bowls of chilled conch salad to a crooked wooden table in front of the shack, and readily devoured the contents. The minutes-fresh meat was firm and bright. Mixed in were chopped tomatoes, onions, and peppers, the whole doused in copious amounts of freshly squeezed lime juice, then a pinch of salt and pepper. The conch salad was delicious.
*excerpted from Unsinkable Mister Brown, by Brian David Bruns. PARIS BOOK FESTIVAL WINNER: SILVER
Available everywhere books are sold.

Few things bring out fear, prejudice, and ethnocentrism more completely than medical care on cruise ships. We’re all subject to a bit of this. After all, when ill, who doesn’t prefer mom’s chicken soup over an injection, regardless of how credentialed the medical professional may be? Alas, mom’s not on the cruise, so we have to rely on the ship’s medical staff. But is he/she credentialed? Yes. Is he/she what you are used to at home? No. Does it matter? Probably not.
First, the scare-tactics: an oft-cited paper by Consumer Affairs in 2002 found medical facilities on ships lacking. They were quite harsh without actually providing much data. For example, they claimed a survey conducted by the American Medical Association found 27% of ship doctors and nurses did not have ‘advanced training’ in treating heart attacks. They did not define ‘advanced training,’ so even a gastroenterologist serving a stint at sea could easily be considered unqualified. Yet these ‘severely lacking’ individuals, as the article called them, have a success rate that puts U.S. hospitals to shame. Indeed, losing merely .000004% of such patients are odds I’ll take any day! Those are numbers cited in that very same article, by the way. The language was damning. The numbers were not.
Ship doctors rarely see passengers for anything beyond dehydration or stomach ache. The overwhelming majority of medical issues you’ll have on a cruise will be what you brought with you: heart attacks being most common. Time is the most important issue in treating heart attack, not size of the facility. Still not convinced? Consider: “living on a cruise ship provides a better quality of life and is cost effective for elderly people who need help to live independently”, according to a study published in the Journal of the American Geriatrics Society (2004). Many elderly, high-risk folks hop from ship to ship, more than satisfied with ship facilities and personnel. A brilliant article from CNN Health explains much of ship doctor training: http://brev.is/pzt3
I’ve met many a cruise ship nurse and doctor. More than a few are American surgeons and nurse practitioners that have taken tours as ship medical personnel for a change of pace. But most ship doctors are not licensed in the U.S. That doesn’t mean they haven’t been licensed professionals for a great many years back home. That home may be from Europe, for example, or Africa. This is where ethnocentrism rears its ugly head. Whispers of witch doctors. I’ve read online complaints (generally from my fellow Americans) of “some African doctor identifying my wife’s ailment as caused by her sins and prescribing a bath in the blood of Jesus Christ.” I find this as plausible as reports of Elvis sightings.
Ultimately, cruise lines are not required to provide medical care at all. You are placing yourself under the perceived protection of a corporation; corporations that intentionally pay taxes in one country, register ships in another, hire employees from many, take passengers from yet more, then sail where there are no laws at all. If you have an underlying medical condition or concern, it behooves you to take responsibility for your own care by research and preparation. As ships often mention, their medical facilities are the equivalent of a small town. If a medical emergency emerges beyond the abilities of the ship, you will be helicoptered off to the nearest hospital. If that’s not in the U.S., so be it. If you are that terrified of the rest of the world’s standards, then don’t leave home.
By Brian David Bruns, author of national best-seller Cruise Confidential.
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Halloween is the one glorious night where you are not only free, but encouraged, to embrace that which brings fear and loathing into the hearts and minds of common man. A cross-dressing man fits into that category as snugly as, say, Freddie Kruger or H.R. Giger’s Alien. But sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do.
Gathering a Halloween costume of any kind while sailing the Mediterranean is no small task, but even more so on the Wind Surf. Though the world’s largest sailing ship, she was still small enough to fit into as many old world ports as you can imagine. Thus we were in port seven days a week, frequently in seven different nations. Cobbling together a unified costume from bits and pieces obtained in Morocco, Spain, France, Monaco, Malta, Tunisia, Italy, Croatia, and Greece is not easy—especially when none of those countries celebrate the American holiday. Regardless, a Halloween crew party was announced, and nothing brings a shiver down my spine more than the thought of missing a crew party.
But what to be, and how? There were no superstores loaded with costumes, nor seasonal businesses in strip malls. Solutions always present themselves, however, and in my case it was in the form of… well, getting into women’s pants. While I admit to constantly thinking about getting into women’s pants, that rarely means actually donning them. But this is just what was suggested one evening when brainstorming with a friend from the spa.
“I have nothing to wear,” I lamented to Natalie, echoing women everywhere and from all times. Natalie noted this. “You sound just like my cabin mate,” she said. “Claudia whined about not having a dress for formal night, so I offered her one of mine.” I laughed, while she chortled in her wine. Natalie was six foot two inches tall, a full foot taller than Claudia. “You would fit better into one of my dresses,” Natalie continued. An idea was born.
So I borrowed a slim black dress from the Australian giantess and next port, Toulon, France, I found a wig shop. I opted for dirty blonde. Shoes were hopeless for my size twelve and a half feet (we weren’t in Vegas, after all), but accessories were hurled upon me by the entire spa staff. After great deliberation by the spa girls doing my makeover, I was ordered to shave my goatee. I complied. Then came the order to shave my chest. I did not. Soon enough, however, I was all dolled up and ready for the Halloween party on Wind Surf.
When I arrived to the party arm in arm with Natalie, everything came to a screeching halt. Literally: the Italian DJ actually fumbled with his music, horrified. Italian men would rather be hurled into the bowels of Hell than be seen without their machismo. The Asian crew stared, agog, while the usually uptight Brits gave me surprisingly ‘understanding’ nods.
Because the Surf was so small, the party only involved a few dozen crew members. Most costumes were improvised. Natalie wrapped herself toga-like in a white sheet and played goddess. Several spa girls borrowed boiler suits and with the help of lacy bras became… well… slutty, grease-smeared engineers. They were very popular, as one could imagine. The Canadian dive instructor grabbed a gondolier outfit in Venice, while the Indonesian (and flamboyantly gay) photographer just pranced around in his underwear. Oh, he also wore skull makeup. By the end of the night, most people were following suit. It was quite a party, as crew parties always are.
By Brian David Bruns, author of national best-seller Cruise Confidential.
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Like in any big city, few stars can be seen at night on a cruise ship. Even if sailing black waters with black sky far from mankind, the ships themselves blast so much light pollution that you see nothing but black. It’s just like how stars are not visible from the surface of the moon. I pondered this while at the stern rail, as aft, port, and starboard were impenetrable black. Far beyond the bow, however, the orange glow of oil refineries illuminated the swamps of Louisiana. We were nearing the mouth of the Mississippi River and occasional navigation beacons of red and green popped through the broken surface of the sea.
“What happens if I fall overboard?” a man had asked me earlier. It was such a common question that my answer had become habit. “The ship will stop and a boat will pick you up.”
But this was only half true. I gazed into the wake of the ship and watched the brown water churn. The waves looked very small indeed from the top decks. If the hundred-plus foot fall did not kill the passenger, he would disappear in the gargantuan swells. Fortunately, it is unlikely modern azipod propellers would chop him into chum. Safety training was very clear in the case of a man overboard: throw a life-ring first, then call the bridge. People assume the life-ring is simply a flotation device, but it is in fact much more. A person’s head will disappear from sight within seconds from the deck of a big ship. After throwing a life ring we were trained to grab someone, anyone, to physically point at the swimmer and not stop until he’s found, no matter how long it takes. That physical act of pointing is paramount, for even if aware of the swimmer, he’ll be lost in less than one minute at sea. But at night? And if no one sees you fall? Goodbye.
That very cruise someone had, in fact, gone overboard. Rumors of how and why among the crew and guests were rampant. The leading story among passengers was that two honeymooners were arguing and there was a push. Crew thought differently. Another suicide, most agreed. For suicides were not so rare on cruise ships. More than a few folks intentionally spent their every last penny on a final week of wild abandon and, late on the final night, jumped overboard. What better way to ensure no one will rescue you? How many people are looking aft of a ship at 3AM? It is possible to survive such falls, but unlikely unless you’re a fighter.
Though statistically utterly insignificant, unexplained deaths on a cruise ship do happen. Because most occur in international waters, reporting obligations and behavior are decidedly less than altruistic. Cruise lines invariably fudge reporting, because people read headlines, not articles. Whether it’s a suicide or not matters little to critics, who pounce upon any hint of cruise line recklessness. Even if it is a suicide, days can pass before verification from land-based authorities, even with the presence of a note. By then, sensational headlines can blow things wildly out of proportion.
On that cruise, nobody knew for certain what happened. An investigation was resolved somewhere on land, as was always the case. The only fact the crew knew for sure was that the man was never found until he washed up on the Gulf Coast several days later.
I focused on a floating piece of flotsam and watched it disappear into the night. It was lost to the blackness within fifteen seconds.
By Brian David Bruns, author of national best-seller Cruise Confidential.
Pics of the people and places I blog about are on my website and FB pages, join me!
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Discover life below the waterline, where dozens of nationalities combine in ways none could have ever imagined. Strange cabins mates, strange food, strange ports, and strange ways (not to mention strange guests!). From the author of national best-seller Cruise Confidential comes the memories, the dramas, and most of all the laughs, of a job unlike anything else in the world. We enjoy vacation. They live adventure.

Moving up from waiter to manager in Carnival Cruise Lines was literal: I ascended six decks above the crew who dwell below the waterline. As a junior officer I still had a cabin-mate, but things were looking up. This was the officer’s deck, after all, and I would no longer be subjected to the crew’s competing music (usually Indian vs. hip hop) long after the quiet-hours (which begin at 10PM). For the previous several months I had tried to sleep with my head and feet pressed against walls thumping with bass and plugging my ears over lyrics such as, “Yo, yo, I hate cops and bit*hes, but cops and bit*hes both want me.” Now the music had moved to the other end of the spectrum: “Let your light shine through me, oh Lord, my shepherd.”
You see, my new cabin-mate, from northern India, was a Reborn Christian. When Bogo wasn’t praying out loud (while showering, shaving, dressing, or really just breathing) he was preaching to me. He had so many Bibles to give away that I had to relinquish the shelf in my bunk for the overflow. This was not a big deal, though I’m no longer Christian. Bogo was a good guy. He was probably forty-something, with a graying Persian-style mustache and shaved head. A strange series of indentations marred the back of his skull, not unlike someone pressing their fingers into a wet ball of clay. How he shaved in those grooves I never found out. How he got the horrendous purple circles beneath his eyes I found out all too well.
More trying than the continual reminders that I was going to Hell were the photos of his baby plastered all over the walls. Bogo had been denied leave to see the birth of his son—no reason given—so photos were all the poor guy had. I know he wanted to experience that magical, monumental moment of birth, but honestly, I didn’t. Couldn’t he have shown photos of a two-minute baby, carefully cleaned and warmly wrapped in a blanket with Mom? Instead I was barraged with Junior’s first terrifying seconds in this world: discolored, slimy, and screaming. Bogo displayed no less than fifteen full-sized glossy photos by his bunk. They scared me so much I leapt into the top bunk like a child avoiding the monster under his bed.
What really bothered me was that Bogo was an insomniac. I discovered this in dramatic fashion.
In the afternoon just two days before I had left the charming Transylvanian town where I had vacationed (I carefully omitted any mention of this Pagan location to Bogo), and drove four hours to Brasov. At midnight I drove five more hours to Bucharest, followed by a pre-dawn flight to Frankfurt. Then came the eleven hour flight to Chicago (with screaming kids beside me), followed by another five hours flight to New Orleans. Then came the final hour-plus taxi to Gulfport, Mississippi. I was exhausted, but immediately put to work on the ship for fifteen straight hours, literally without even a fifteen minute break. I knew that low-level management always got the worst of it, but ships are insane.
Sometime about 3:30AM I finally got off work and shuffled to my cabin. I had not slept a wink in fifty hours and countless time zones. My eyes burned, my head pounded, and my muscles barely worked. Too tired to even undress, I pulled my heavy body onto the bunk for a glorious six hours of sleep before the next shift. Ecstasy was closing my eyes, soothing the itch, watching the redness melt lovingly into cool blackness. I drifted gratefully into slumber… until a voice commanded, “Admit your sins and I will lead you in prayer!”

Getting your first roommate in college (for example) can be intimidating, as any life change can be. But getting a new cabin mate on a cruise ship is particularly so. Sharing your limited personal space with a complete stranger is not something common, after all (one-night stands excepted, I guess). But when that stranger is invariably from another nation, indeed probably from another hemisphere entirely, of a different color and different religion speaking a different language (or many), you just don’t know what to expect. When approaching my first cabin as crew, I thought I was prepared for anything. Talk about a failure of imagination…
B deck cabins were about twenty feet below the waterline. The corridor was taller than on the newer ships, but just as narrow. The poor lighting emphasized the lack of freshness and painted everything in a dismal, back-alley vibe. Thick veins of exposed pipes added to the feeling. The entire scene could have been a set for the climactic showdown in a bad action movie. My cabin door was horrendously scratched, dented even, as if somehow utilized in a brutal dog-fight. Adding to that impression were the sounds coming through the door: the sharp crack of hand-to-hand combat.
It was surprisingly roomy for a crew cabin, no doubt due to the lack of a sink and a shower shared with the neighboring cabin (common on newer ships). But on Fantasy, those were down the hall. Inside were two narrow bunks and two wooden lockers, smudged with age and flaking laminate. A small desk was completely covered by a 13-inch television, the space beneath stuffed with a dorm-sized refrigerator. A single chair hosted a Nintendo. The air was stiflingly hot and stagnant: the vent being hidden behind a randomly-taped plastic bag that cut off air flow.
The narrow access to the bunks was blocked by my new roommate. His tiny body lay diagonally across the cabin as to fill it, legs splayed wide open, each foot propped onto its own case of dried noodles. His rear sat deep into a smashed third box, and his head rested on the feet of a huge teddy bear that occupied the lower bunk. The controls of his gaming console sat comfortably on his lap. Though the Nintendo was hooked up to the TV and the controller in his hands, the screen instead blasted a very loud, very obnoxious Asian martial arts movie.
And he was completely naked.
I had never met a man from Thailand before, certainly not one bare-ass naked and spread-eagled in front of me. Such things would become commonplace once I got used to ships, of course.
‘Ben’, he called himself, because his real name was a whopping eighteen letters long. Upon waking he immediately mentioned his girlfriend was going to sleep with him every night. How two humans and a four-foot teddy bear could share a bunk so small—my own head and feet both pressed against the walls—was a marvel. But Ben and ‘Amy’ were quiet and courteous. The only noise they ever made, in fact, was their incessant watching of what appeared to be the same martial arts film over and over and over.
“When are you going to get a new movie?” I finally asked, exasperated.
“It’s not the same movie,” Ben replied. “It’s a forty-part Chinese movie I bought in Malaysia. Dubbed in Korean for Amy. Subtitled in Thai for me.”
“On a Japanese TV,” I added. “On an Finnish ship under Panama’s flag, serving Americans like me.”
“See?” Ben exclaimed. “You’re learning ships already!”

This is not a blog about the port of St Thomas, the beautiful US Virgin Island, but more of some amazing advice from an individual living there.
I was with a friend at a restaurant in St Thomas, the waiter came to us and you could tell he was from the States and not the Caribbean, so I just had to ask. "Where are you from?" He replied, "Philedelphia." Then he went on telling us how he used to be a school teacher but since all of the budget cuts in the school system he has not worked as a teacher for 3 years but waited tables in Philly to make ends meet.
He then said something that will stick with me forever. "If I am going to wait tables, I might as well do it somewhere beautiful and in a place I will love to be all year long." He just blew my mind with that advice and I told myself that this world is far too beautiful to not enjoy it or love where I live.
So I encourage everyone reading this… if you are not happy where you are, make a change! Life is not life unless you are happy!

There is much to enjoy in an art auction aboard a cruise ship. The auction process can be quite entertaining for those who participate, and art itself can bring stimulation into even the most dreary life. Yet there is much to fear. I have been a professional artist, art historian, and also art dealer, and can assure you that being fleeced by an art dealer is by no means restricted to ships. First I will discuss some tips about the art world in general, then specifically about ships.
The easiest way to catch a lying salesperson, be it in gallery or auction, is when talking about limited editions. Watch for lines like ‘the lower the number, the more valuable the work’, or ‘the first numbers are crisper because the plates are fresher’ or ‘artist’s proofs are worth more.’ It’s all BS.
First of all, every work of a limited edition from any reputable atelier (workshop) is certified before it leaves, and if it’s not perfect then no reputable artist would sign it. Second, and far more revealing, is how the process works: hand-made lithographs have a different plate for each color, and use semi-transparent inks for blending (serigraphs a different screen). That’s a lot of plates, which means a lot of human error. So to get an edition of 100, you start with 200 runs of the first color plate, then throw out the mistakes (smudging, etc.). Now you have 193 left, for example, and run on top of those the second color plate. Throw out the mistakes that don’t align right, etc. and move on down the line of color plates until done. By the end you’ll have your 100, and any left over are labeled AP (artist proof) or PP (printer’s proof) or whatever else they want to call it. Thomas Kinkade, for example, made up dozens of such tags to give the illusion of exclusivity (ironic, because his weren’t done by hand and really were posters). There is no ‘first print pulled’ or ‘artist color check’ or any of that crap. All were assembled simultaneously. Thus, limited editions all have an identical tangible value. Until they begin to sell out, of course. Art is very much about supply and demand.
Ultimately, the real value of art is simply what someone wants to pay for it. That’s why Picasso paintings sell for $100M.
Beware the sales tool pushing art as an investment. That’s pure gambling. The biggest gains are always from the biggest risks. Is that a game you really want to play? How many people really wanted to shell out tens of thousands of dollars for a Jackson Pollock splatter painting back when the average house cost $14,500? As luck (and a surprise encounter with a zillionaire art buyer and a dramatic, early demise) would have it, such a painting would now be worth millions. Yet most who bought Pollock’s works did so because they enjoyed his art for one reason or another, and that’s the only reason to buy art. Because you like it.
Buying art is like buying a car. The more you know about it, the less you can be had by a salesman. In Venice I went to an art dealer in Piazza San Marco selling Picassos. They were limited editions complete with certificates of authenticity for a few thousand euros, which I knew was about 1/80th the going price for what I was looking at. After scrutinizing the work a moment, I realized they were limited edition machine lithographs of an original Picasso limited edition hand-press etching. In other words, they Xeroxed the expensive Picasso and sold the copies in small batches. The certificate of authenticity was from the local company churning them out.
So what about art auctions at sea? I have a lot to say about art auctioneers, dishing on them (us) heavily in my book Ship for Brains. Because of international waters, are they inherently less trustworthy than galleries on land? No. Losing a contract with the cruise line is a killing blow for a gallery, so they won’t blatantly scam people. But that doesn’t mean individual art auctioneers aren’t liars. Many were in my days. One auctioneer, for example, promised a private lunch with the world-famous artist Peter Max with every purchase of a limited edition. Ludicrous he said it. Ludicrous people bought it. Eventually word of such antics forced the art gallery to videotape every auction and scrutinize every auctioneer for lies. Labor intensive, to be sure, but credibility is everything in the art world.
The most common question from American buyers was always: why is it so expensive? If you can’t tell the difference in quality between a $15 poster and a $1500 lithograph from Marcel Mouly, or are disdainful of any such difference, then collecting art isn’t for you. Art auctions sell quality art (well, there’s some crap, too: they are selling to the general public). This is an opportunity to learn the difference between that Star Wars poster still on your wall and a lithograph from a French atelier that worked with Picasso. And, just for the record, in college I learned to create lithographs, serigraphs, copper-plate etchings, etc, to earn my degree as art historian. It’s freakin’ HARD.
The most common misconception from American buyers was always: how can it be original if there is more than one? This concept is unique to us from the States. Maybe it comes from our inherent need for individuality, I don’t know. I do know it’s wrong. The vast majority of Americans are NOT educated about art: didn’t take classes in school (high school or college), don’t have it at home (or know anyone who does), don’t go to art museums, don’t spend time discussing its relevance (modern or historical). We are an extremely art-illiterate society. That’s OK. Yet these very same people insist that to be an original work means there is only one, such as a painting. That’s not OK. Admitting ignorance is the first step to overcoming it.
Anything that is made by hand by an artist is an original work of art. It’s a craft.
Art auctions on ships provide an introduction into a vastly complicated world. Can you learn all there is to know about wine (domestic, import, vintages, varietals, not to mention taste, bouquet, procedures, etal.) in a short presentation? Or when buying a car? Understand that auctions cater to the masses of unsophisticated buyers. It’s their business, it’s your opportunity. If you are serious about collecting art, do your homework. Are your best interests in mind when you’re educated by a salesman? I think not. If you’re worried about a good price, buy it outside the auction so you can haggle down instead of bidding up. Why, oh why do people forget that the whole darn point of an auction is to get the prices HIGHER?
If you are there for the excitement of an auction, great! Have fun. It’s not rigged, you’re just in their house and playing into their strengths, not yours. Auctions get people excited and they act impulsively. Most complainers aren’t scammed: they’re embarrassed. And, really, when any salesman gives you free booze, be careful!
By Brian David Bruns, author of national best-seller Cruise Confidential.
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What do you say to a group of thirty scared, exhausted, but excited people who have flown 5,000 to 10,000 miles from home to start a new job at sea? What words can simultaneously console both a macho Bulgarian man and a timid Indonesian woman? Upon joining Carnival Fantasy’s restaurant training, I heard the following spiel, more or less, and found it engaging.
“Let me welcome you aboard,” said the trainer. “We are going to have a lot of fun, and we are going to do a lot of work. I guarantee this will be a new experience for all of you. It will not be easy. Let’s start with why you are here. You’re all here for the same reason: money.
“So to make money, you first need to learn about serving Americans. It doesn’t matter what things were like back home. The majority of cruisers are American, so you need to learn what they like and what they don’t like. Americans are the easiest people to serve in the world. They’re not interested in fine service. They eat out all the time there, so being in the dining room is not a special occasion for them the way it is for most of us. So they don’t want a servant: they want a friend. They will ask personal questions about you and your family. They’ll ask where you’re from, but don’t be upset if they don’t know where that is. Most won’t.
“This is an American corporation with American guests, which means American standards. That doesn’t mean you must eat hamburgers every day, but it does mean washing with soap and water every day. I’m from India, for example, and lots of Indians smell bad because they don’t use soap. That may be fine back home, but it can’t happen here. America means deodorant.
“And ships mean English. In guest areas always use English. Even if you are talking about cricket scores in your native language, Americans will assume you’re talking about them. Nobody knows why. I guess it’s their big sense of personal identity.
“Now let me tell you a true story. A waiter from the Philippines once had a table of old ladies who refused to leave after lunch. He needed them out so he could set up his station for dinner. Finally they ordered more coffee, which was long gone. He had to brew more. It meant he was going to miss preparing for his dinner guests, which probably meant hard time for the second seating, too. He stormed away swearing in Tagalog, using very bad words. He assumed he was safe. But one of the ladies was married to a military man stationed in the Philippines. She understood every word and told the hotel director. The waiter was forced to apologize and was sent home the very next port, mid-cruise.
“Carnival has over sixty nationalities that get along very well. If we don’t, we get sent home. That means no money. If you fight with anybody because he’s different, you will be sent home. No money. Even if someone hits you and you don’t fight back, you are both going home. Carnival takes it that seriously. Revel in learning about the world, but don’t forget why we are here.
“Look around,” he said. “These strange foreigners are all here, just like you, for the money. And though it may not seem like it now, by the end of training these strange foreigners will feel like family.” He was right. When the four weeks were up, there was not a dry eye in the class.
By Brian David Bruns, author of national best-seller Cruise Confidential.
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Olympic gold medalist Hope Solo has vindicated what I’ve been saying since I wrote Cruise Confidential. Alas, it did not involve meeting the sexy sports legend, but merely her quote. A highly relevant quote.
“There’s a lot of sex going on,” she stated to ESPN in July. "With a once-in-a-lifetime experience, you want to build memories, whether it's sexual, partying, or on the field. I've seen people having sex right out in the open. On the grass, between buildings, people are getting down and dirty."
She was talking about the Olympic Village, but if you inserted ‘crew cabins’ she would have been right on the money. Swimmer Ryan Lochte—another multiple gold medalist—backed Solo up, stating he believes "70 percent to 75 percent of Olympians” hook up behind the scenes, adding slyly, "Hey, sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do."
But these are Olympians, humans who do stuff daily the rest of us would find impossible, right? Enter your cruise ship waiters. They work every day, all day, for up to ten months straight. Sure, the time-clocks say only 80 hours a week, but we all know that doesn’t include time spent guarding your station from roving packs of waiters, hungry for your saucers and side plates. Many of us showed up an hour early before every shift, and most days that’s three shifts. All that’s on top of boat drill: both passenger’s and crew’s.
Yet crew still find plenty of time to hook up, and not necessarily in their cabins, either. I’ve seen crew going at it on open decks (a particularly wild crew party on Carnival Fantasy comes to mind...). At sea the reasons for this wild abandon are very much the same as in Olympic Village. Despite coming from every corner of the globe, everybody is there for the same reason. They’re all far from home, working hard at something nobody back home can possibly relate to. All are generally young, generally attractive, and generally can’t get on board unless proven squeaky-clean.
And ships provide free condoms for the crew.
More than 100,000 condoms were distributed to athletes for the London Olympics, according to Yahoo contributor David C. Cutler. It took only one week for athletes at the Olympic Village at the 2000 Sydney Olympic Games to run out of the 70,000 condoms supplied. See? Similarities between Olympians and crew are rising. Funny how cruise lines won’t reveal just how many condoms they distribute. Those of us who lived below the waterline certainly know.
Working on a cruise ship is a work-hard, play-hard lifestyle. For most of us, it’s only for a short period in our lives, when we’re young and adventurous. Why not make the most of it? You have a world-wide smorgasbord of bodies to choose from, probably for the only time in your life. That’s worth losing a little sleep over. And for those who still don’t believe that crew can party like Olympians and still function in the morning, I offer Hope’s parting words to ESPN:
"When we were done partying, we got out of our nice dresses, got back into our stadium coats and, at 7 a.m. with no sleep, went on the TODAY show drunk."
By Brian David Bruns, author of national best-seller Cruise Confidential.
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