Aboard the S.S. Absurdity

How I learned to stop worrying and love the cruise.

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Let us begin with a short litany of the preposterous: there is an ice skating rink, a carousel, a park with actual trees, a bar that floats up and down across multiple decks, an English pub (not to mention a sports bar, karaoke bar, jazz bar, poolside bar, adults-only bar, wine bar, champagne bar, piano bar, Spanish bar, and fully automated robotic bar), 20 restaurants and dining areas, five swimming pools, nine monstrous jacuzzis, two separate surfing simulators, four water slides (plus a fifth “dry” slide), a zip-line experience, a pair of rock climbing walls, an arcade, a miniature golf course, a Broadway-sized theatre, a two-story music hall, and an outdoor aquatics amphitheater featuring a 60-foot high dive pool whose bottom can split into three parts that independently float all the way up to the surface to become a platform.

There is a full spa, nail salon, IV therapy area, fitness center, and massage clinic. There is an outdoor basketball court, which is retrofitted for tennis, pickleball, volleyball, soccer, and even hockey. There is a full casino. An art gallery. A promenade with shops displaying fine watches, accessories, apparel, beachwear, and jewelry. There is a vintage 1930 Auburn Boattail Speedster convertible parked just down from the full-service Starbucks.

All of this is onboard a single ship.

Our family embarked upon our first cruise with children on this very ship, once the largest cruise ship in the world–a title now held by sister ships of the same company and flag. Thomas, our dear son, had chosen it after spending hours researching cruises on YouTube. This is what happens, I thought, looking around, when you let the 10 year-old plan your vacation.

I admit I carried reservations–fine, biases–about cruising. About cruise people. That they were tacky, bloated adventure boats stuffed to the brim with people whose idea of fun was a never-ending chocolate fountain. That the ships were petri dishes crawling with norovirus. That the environmental impact of floating hundreds of thousands of tons of human carnival was devastating. That the cultural impact of tying up a billion-and-a-half dollar cruise ship to an impoverished nation’s dock and disembarking said norovirus-laden, chocolate fountain rampagers was culturally exploitive and irresponsible.

Then, we met Bhaskar.

Bhaskar, whose Sanskrit name means “the light maker,” was assigned to our family’s table and served as the head waiter. He was young but poised. As we sat our children down at the formal table, covered with linens and superfluous cutlery, he presented our menus and assured us he would gladly handle whatever requests we might have.

Behold, the brilliant splendor of daily, formal dining. Let there be light.

We surely put Bhaskar to the test more than the average cruising family, what with my carnivore of a spouse and mostly-keto kids. Even so, he–along with our assistant waiter, a woman from Zimbabwe named Regina–never blinked, never hesitated, never betrayed so much as a curiosity at the request for an extra New York strip steak, hold the potatoes, hold anything with a carbohydrate or sucrose molecule.

Whatever hesitations I had about the entire we’re on a cruise thing melted away when my youngest daughter ordered a steak. It arrived with all of the other entrees, served in a ballet of presentation. Then, rather than depart, as waiters so often do after the main course performance, Bhaskar walked around the table and addressed our seven and a half year-old. “My princess,” he said, “may I help you with your steak?”

Annie nodded, and Bhaskar picked up her fork and knife and proceeded to convert the 10-ounce strip steak into bite-sized portions. The entire matter took him no more than a minute, but it was a task that has for years now fallen to Kelly or me–the task of preparing the meal for the youngest child. Instead, we had the pleasure of simply… eating.

We began to fall in love with this cruising thing.

Yes, yes, that’s what it’s designed to do–modern cruising transports very average, boring, middle class people like me into a faux world of luxury, all while painlessly, cleverly extracting additional fees. It shouldn’t be surprising that staff members ingratiate themselves to passengers. We were already paying a built-in gratuity per person per day; service above and beyond might earn even more.

But at the same time, it’s so much fun to relax and enjoy the mirage that it’s all yours, even if only for a week. The conga line wrapped around the pool, the Men’s International Belly Flop contest, the cold drinks brought to your deck chair, the tingling sensation of a sunburn in January. The brilliance of aqua blue Caribbean seas. The royalty of watching live music performed every day. The wonder of watching dolphins jump off the bow of the ship. The mystery of the sun setting behind an island mountain.

We luxuriated in the independence we could afford our children while we were under way–we were all contained onboard, so who cares if they wanted to go to a different pool? Or down the waterslides? Or to the upper deck to grab sliced grapefruit? Or off to play putt-putt? The only regular schedule we had at sea was to be back for supper. Everything else was improvisational at best. Want to do something? Well, let’s go.

Over the course of the week aboard, we got to know Bhaskar and Regina better, bit by bit. Bhaskar had a son back in India, and he would stay up late to FaceTime with him. Regina enjoyed shopping on her days off in port. Bhaskar was thrilled to hear we were going zip lining the next day, something he loved to do when he could.

Regina would joyfully check with Thomas on his coffee order. Bhaskar would help Annie make a funny face out of the vegetables and grapes on her plate or whip up an animal out of a napkin.

Somehow, this floating oasis started to feel more real than fake, more human than hustle.

There were opportunities to see less programmed, more authentic sides of our ports of call. A journey into Jamaica exposed us to a lot of different living situations for residents there and a lesson about finance and the economy. Even our time on a well-sequestered (and, candidly, guarded) edge of Haiti produced the chance to interact with locals who exposed us to different parts of their culture.

Most importantly, the time we spent together as a family was unique and fulfilling. Even though life on a floating amusement park seems like over-the-top spoiling for a bunch of kids, ours took it in perspective. They found ways to challenge themselves. They leaned into the discomfort that comes with leaving the country and encountering overwhelming things. (This trip was the first international destination for any of our children and involved the first plane travel for two of them.)

And at days-end, when we crammed ourselves back into a stateroom that only brought to mind Rhode Island when considering its square footage, we couldn’t decamp away from one another. Rather, we shared time and space together unlike the regular times in our lives. The break from the cacophony of cruising was spent in close proximity, and it was healthy and good.

I told the kids I hoped they would come home and tell their pals a story about how one time, they were enjoying lobster tail while sailing off the coast of Cuba before they watched a man walk a tightrope 119 feet above sea level. Indulge it, I said. Otherwise, what’s the point of a thing like the S.S. Absurdity if you can’t even show off a little bit of its pixie dust?