May 17, 2013
Let’s Hear It For C.C.
No! I’m not singing the praises of Canadian Club or Coco Channel. Having just completed a trans-Atlantic crossing from Fort Lauderdale to Barcelona, Spain, I’m singing the praises of Christopher Columbus. I crossed in seven days in a luxury cruise ship in moderate weather with fresh linens and gourmet food daily. Chris crossed in 36 days with no thought of a shower and a limited supply of food in a wooden tub that could pass for a row boat on steroids. Why his crew didn’t mutiny, or Chris himself go over the side, may be a tribute to their perseverance—or to an undiagnosed psychiatric illness. He must have had an ego larger than the Donald and balls the size of the Sistine Chapel.
You see, Chris never set out to discover “Oh Beautiful For Spacious Skies.” He had no special desire to go down in history as the discoverer of the Americas. What he wanted was to find a faster route to India with its spices, silks, and gems. The pay off for him would be in tangible rewards, like pesos, or doubloons, or whatever the cash of the day was. If C.C. were alive today he’d more likely be on Wall Street than at the National Geographic Society. His 1492 motives were as mixed as a good mojito—a faster route to India and a cash reward.
Unlike Christopher, my trip had no hope of a cash payoff. Instead there was an upfront pay in. But like Chris, my motives were mixed. I signed up for a fifteen day vacation with port stops in Nassau, Bahamas, Tenerife and Lanzonate in the Canary Islands, Lisbon, Portugal, Gibraltar and finally Barcelona. But mine too was a journey of discovery. I wanted to discover how well I could physically and mentally handle fifteen days at sea sailing solo. My partner, Howard, would have gone bonkers during the seven day Atlantic crossing part of the trip. Or, worse yet, he would have driven me bonkers. So, I set sail solo.
Since achieving adulthood—and I acknowledge achieving adulthood may be a dubious claim—I’ve traveled extensively. Sometimes I have traveled alone for business but most frequently with a partner. I’ve never set out for a fifteen day vacation by myself anywhere. After multiple surgeries and my medical mayhem in recent years, I wanted to know whether at this point in my life I could do it—whether I’d enjoy my own company to the extent I thought I would. Whether I could take fifteen days on my own.
What I learned was that yes, I can handle the cobblestone streets of medieval cities and the decks of a ship in rough seas without taking a tumble or dislocating a hip. What I can’t handle is walking up steep inclines, like the rock of Gibraltar. On my attempt to reach the opening of Saint Michael’s cave, halfway up the rock, I became breathless and had to stop and wait for my heart and lungs to get back in sync. Gibraltar is riddled with caves and passageways, many of World War II origin. Why St. Michael has one named after him I’ll never know. But after walking down multiple steps to enter the cave, I realized I was only a quarter of the way in and would have to climb back up them to exit. So I exercised a prerogative of old age and said, “Screw it.” I never did see the inner cave but I had a marvelous panoramic view of the Straits of Gibraltar.
Exiting the ship at some ports involved a hike of several football fields to reach the waiting tour buses. But I saw other travelers with walkers and wheelchairs and one young woman with an above the knee amputation using crutches, and I said, “If they can do it, so can I.”
While the ship provided a panoply of activities—everything from glass blowing demonstrations to cooking classes and dance lessons—most of my time was spent alone with my Kindle and my book, Huge Book of Easy Crosswords. Easy my ass. By the end of the voyage I’d completed fifty of the two hundred puzzles but only two had been completed honestly without a peek at the answers. So, what can I say? I’m a cheat and a crossword neophyte.
What bothered me most and nagged at me throughout the trip, was the realization that in the public spaces of the ship, the bars (of which there were fifteen to choose from), the dining rooms, the library, the elevators, when younger passengers saw me, they saw an old man—and they were reluctant to interact with an old man. Their perception, I know, is accurate. When I look in the mirror I see the same old man. But I see a younger old man than the wrinkles portray and one that doesn’t want to be ignored. I never experienced a personal slight or rejection, rather it was my perception that others saw me as ancient. It may well be a societal stereotype that old people are not worth being involved with, but it was the first time I experienced that bias personally.
It may also have been that everyone I encountered was a sophisticated and experienced traveler. They reveled in retelling their travel tales of safaris in Tanzania, weddings in Katmandu or Brunei, or their years of sailing the Caribbean in their sixty foot sail boat. My travel tales seemed meager by comparison. Many, perhaps most, of my fellow travelers were continuing the cruise from Barcelona to the Aegean, or heading to their simple farm house in Tuscany for the summer, or to Provence for an art colloquium.
I wasn’t envious of their extended travel plans. I just wanted to go home—and had wanted that since day four or five of our journey. The older I get the more grateful I am for my home, my partner, my family and friends. The less I want to be away. The last night of the cruise a Celtic tenor trio with excellent voices provided the entertainment in the ship’s theater. In the Irish tradition, many of their songs were of home and longing to go home. When the strains of “Oh Shenandoah” filled the auditorium, tears filled my eyes.
I thought, “I’m glad you made it Chris, but for me it’s my first and last trans-Atlantic solo sail.”
John Siegfried, a former Rehoboth resident, lives in Ft. Lauderdale. Email John Siegfried
