We knew it was a joke from the start because whenever we mentioned it people laughed, but then it ended with a great punchline.

When I told people our plan for a weekend getaway I prefaced it with, “Now this is a sentence I never thought would come out of my mouth, but… we’re going on a cruise.”

“Really? I didn’t think you’d be the cruising type,” was the usual reply.

That’s because we’re not, but at the same time I’m always up for a new experience, and it was an adventure, albeit an easy, low-risk one. 

The next question was, “Where are you cruising to?”

Nowhere. The cruise was going nowhere, in that it left Brisbane, went up, around and back without stopping anywhere. It was a cruise for cruising’s sake. Basically, we were going to stay at a cheap resort with mediocre, but all inclusive, food on the sea. 

With the possible exception of a transfer from Bali mainland to Nusa Kambangan island, most trips are exciting. I had never been on a boat out on the ocean. I wanted to see if there was anything to see besides water. I wanted to see a sea creature, or maybe glimpse the great Pacific garbage patch. 

What does one do on a ship bound for nowhere for three nights? Drink, eat, drink, drink some more, and dance to hits from the sixties, seventies and maybe 1980. The first two nights were themed. The first theme was white. We weren’t privy to this, being novice cruisers, but it being most people’s second, third or more rodeo, they had come prepared. Anything went, as long as it was white: white muumuu, white cocktail dress, white boob tube and shorts up the crack, didn’t matter. Even the kids were in on it in little white dresses and white, sparkly shoes. 

Out on the sunset deck, they danced the Macarena, the Nutbush, and of course to YMCA. It was actually joyous to see a whole lot of people just loving life, even if they’d had help from the bar in the form of colourful drinks. They were geed up by Nathan the entertainment director, a man with a suspicious amount of energy. 

The next morning, casualties could be found draped across the outdoor couches, unconscious and dishevelled. In one section some passengers stood directing others around a patch of vomit.

The second night was Gatsby night. We did get a sea breeze about this one so I had packed a cocktail dress, sequinned bolero, and one of those fake bejewelled headbands they wore in the twenties that I bought on Amazon. As we walked along the corridor heading for the festivities we passed a young boy holding a blow-up semi-automatic. Nice. Everywhere were gangsters and flappers, the latter with feathers sweeping up from sequinned headbands. There had been a workshop held that day to learn how to make one, plus two dance classes. I contemplated the dance class but decided to have a sleep instead. 

I was expecting lively music from the Gatsby era. Alas, there was just more of the 60s, 70s, and maybe 1980. Nathan, along with some helpers, led the crowd in dancing what looked like a simplified version of the Charleston, but then the dancing just reverted to the usual white male overbite jigging.

There was no theme on the third night and an air of quiet resignation had descended. When we got into the lift to return to our room a young boy and girl who looked to be in their late teens also got in. 

The young boy asked, “Have yous had a good evening?” in an Aussie drawl that suggested he was from out west somewhere.

“Yes,” I replied. “Have you had a good cruise?”

“Yeah, it’s a bit boring but,” he said.
“Really?”

“It’s the same thing everyday,” he said.

“Yeah, it get’s a bit monotonous,” the girl added.

“And there are some real nut-jobs on this boat,” he said.

I made a non-committal reply but in my head thought “Ya think?!”

“Heaps of cougars,” he said.

“Really?”

“Oh yeah. And swingers.”

“What?” I said. “How do you know there are swingers?”

“The upside down pineapples on the doors,” he replied. 

Now I’ve since discovered that this is a well-known swingers signal. My (grown-up) sons said, to my alarm, when I related this conversation,“Oh yeah, the pineapples”. I obviously haven’t been paying attention.

“Yeah,” the boy added, “me and me mates have been running up and down the corridors knocking on their doors. It really pisses them off.”

I had glimpsed the distant blowing of a whale that afternoon and had thought that made the trip worthwhile, but this conversation topped it. Travel, in all forms it seems, truly broadens the mind.

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