Were we foolish or arrogant? Earlier this month 5,700 of us boarded the Royal Caribbean Allure of the Seas in Ft. Lauderdale for the Atlantic crossing to Barcelona. Perhaps we were channeling our teenage selves, thinking we were immortal and that scourges such as the coronavirus might attack others but not us. We the invincible! One thing was certain, though: we knew that an epidemic—soon to be designated a pandemic—was sweeping around the globe.

We were taking a repositioning cruise. When the seasons change, cruise lines move, or reposition, their ships from one area to another, as in our case, from the Caribbean to Europe. In the spring and summer our ship will carry passengers around the Mediterranean and then, next autumn, return to the Caribbean. Cruise lines offer attractive fares, as low as a few hundred dollars depending on the stateroom you choose, to attract passengers when repositioning, since the ship is crossing the Atlantic anyway.

My wife and I take repositioning cruises every year in route to our home away from home, a tiny village in the Languedoc region of France. We enjoy the pleasantness of these voyages. We relax, exercise, and delight in pursuing our lists of books we never seem to have time to read. We have boarded repositioning cruises in Galveston, Miami, Rio de Janeiro, and now in Ft. Lauderdale.

We prefer not to take ships as large as the Allure of the Seas, and, frankly, Royal Caribbean is not our favorite line. We love Oceania cruises. But the Allure of the Seas sailed when and where we wanted to go. If real estate is all about location, location, location, then travel is all about when and where.

Royal Caribbean had sent us emails saying that they would not allow anyone who had been in China or was visibly ill to board our vessel. They would refund the deposits of all whom they prevented from boarding or who had chosen to cancel. And as the departure date approached, the company expanded its list of prohibited countries almost daily.

Were we selfish when we hoped that many passengers would cancel their reservations? Alas, few canceled or were banned, and the ship was chock-a-block with cruisers. Walking around the common areas was like leaving a sports arena after the game.

Why did so few cancel? The answer lies in the profile of repositioning cruise passengers. They tend to be older, retired people who have the time and resources to sail for 13 days.

Chatting with charming people from all over the world is one of the great pleasures of repositioning cruises. Passengers and staff on our ship came from more than 100 countries, have traveled nearly everywhere, and have suffered all the slings and arrows of international travel. They’ve hidden out during coups, endured sickness and disease, and soldiered on through every inconvenience you can imagine. So, while they were aware of the COVID-19 risk, they chose travel over caution and adventure over prudence. For them, travel is life. To stay home is unthinkable.

Not once did we hear the words “virus,” “coronavirus,” or “COVID-19” from our fellow passengers. The disease was not the elephant in the room, the unpleasant uncle who misbehaves at family weddings and is never spoken of, or a Bertha Mason, Edwin Rochester’s wife, whom he kept in the attic in Jane Eyre. It was, instead, akin to politics: we all deemed it irrelevant, having decided to take the cruise.

Soon, however, passengers began whispering about canceled cruises and how their travel plans were fast becoming disrupted.

Cruise ships are remarkable things. They are not simply vessels of conveyance. They are floating cities. In our city, the population of passengers, crew, and staff was 7,000. Further, a ship, like a city, must provide potable water, waste disposal, clean air, heating and cooling systems, laundries, police and fire officers, food and drink, and medical facilities. The ship’s crew can only load supplies for all these services, and dispose of their waste products, at major ports of call.

When a cruise line cancels a voyage, thousands of people, onboard and onshore, are terribly and adversely affected. And you don’t have to be an economist to appreciate the magnifier effect. The ship’s personnel—who serve you your meals, clean your linens and staterooms (twice a day), pour your wine, clean the ship, and replenish your supplies—typically come from developing countries. Their jobs are vital. They support not only themselves but their families back home. The cruise line provides them room and board but does not pay them a salary. Tips from grateful passengers are their only source of revenue. I worry a lot about them when I hear of cruise lines canceling voyages.

Lovely, statuesque Michelle from Jamaica, who cleaned our cabin; tall and fit Christopher, always smiling, from Kenya, who knew which bottle of wine we would order before we did; coffee-colored Aman from India, who took our dinner order every evening; sweet Honey from Zimbabwe, who seated us; the charming barista Jackson, from the Philippines, who saw me coming every morning and had my two cappuccinos with an extra shot ready for me at the counter (“You’re early today, Mr. Dennis!”)—all delightful—are now in peril. For passengers, cancellation of a voyage is a disappointment and at worst a nuisance. For staff and their families, it is a cataclysm.

A few days before we docked at Barcelona, I heard passengers howling into their phones at Expedia and other travel companies, trying to book flights home after theirs had been canceled. They crowded the service desk, imploring the staff to arrange flights home for them. The staff, unable to assist, could only shake their heads.

When we disembarked, the ship’s officers were friendly and efficient. Cruise personnel are like army sergeants or elementary school teachers who know how to move people around with great efficiency and order. I was surprised no one wore latex surgical gloves, not even the Spanish passport control officers, even though the virus was devastating Spain.

Once on dry land, we hailed a taxi that whisked us through nearly empty streets to the airport, where we strode through vacant aisles to the Europcar rental counter. We were Europcar’s only customers. The clerk, complaining that Barcelonans were panicking, said she had gone to the grocery store only to come away empty handed. Shelves were bare. People were hoarding everything they could carry.

We set out from Barcelona heading north to France on nearly empty freeways, wondering what we would find in our village in Languedoc. When would this end? Would life ever become normal again? The answers, dear reader, are “blowin’ in the wind.”

— Email comments to Julie@bayoucitypress.com or leave public comments below.
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