The Zaandam

As I gazed down at the St. Lawrence River from the Greyhound bus, I saw a white and blue cruise ship moving slowly away from us. Painted on the stern, I could just make out the name: Zaandam. For the first time in my life, I longed to be on a cruise ship.

In 1989, my mom bought a neat one-bedroom condo on a beach in St. Croix while my dad was scuba diving from a boat offshore. She later bought the unit above and my parents frequently invited their children and relatives to share their piece of the Virgin Islands. When Sam was one and R’el ten, they invited our whole family. The kids and I spent three weeks in paradise; Jim joined us for the final week. Their backyard was a beach and reef. We snorkeled and had hermit crab races, visited Whim Plantation and enjoyed freshly-fried johnnycakes.

After that trip, I went down every February. I loved mile-long swims along the shore, scuba diving among the coral reefs, and having dinner with my parents. A mile from the condo was Frederiksted and the pier where the cruise ships docked. We would see the tourists scurry off the boat for their shore time. Spending 17 hours each day on a boring ship for just a few hours on shore had no appeal. I was content with visiting the same reefs (and there were several) and loved staying on the same island all week.

An Alaska cruise appealed to me. My dad and grandpa, discerning world-travelers, went on one and thoroughly enjoyed it. About eight years ago Jim and I did the same. The glaciers were magnificent, Anchorage's dusk at 11 p.m. unworldly.

When Jim’s mom suggested a New England and Canada cruise for all her children and spouses, I looked forward to it: I’d never been to Nova Scotia and love Quebec City. The cruise ship would simply be the vessel to get me there: easier than driving. We boarded in Boston and headed north to Maine and eastern Canada: Nova Scotia, Prince Edward Island, and Quebec. After a day in Montreal, Jim and I would return home by bus though Vermont and New Hampshire.

But as we rode over the Cartier Bridge in Montreal, I found myself wistfully watching the Zaandam as it glided back towards Quebec City, with a fresh load of passengers. It had been our home for seven days. Every evening at 5:15 p.m. Robert, our head waiter, had cheerfully greeted us and taken our orders; there was a different menu each night. George, the wine steward, gave up asking for our wine order and quietly removed the long-stemmed glasses the staff had set at our places. Jim and I soaked up the showtunes and sing-alongs with Jamm the piano man: he knows many hundreds of songs. We listened to a jazz quartet from Greece. I laughed at the ventriloquist, Mike Robinson, and was convinced there were two distinct personalities on stage, even though Terence arrived and left the stage in a suitcase. (My favorite joke from Mike Robinson (there are so many to choose from): Gaming, that’s the preferred term for gambling. Gambling suggests you might win.)

I grew attached to the ship in a way I never had to a hotel. Of course, I’ve never stayed in a first-rate hotel for a week: I usually choose a hotel for low price. The ship had rooms to explore. It took me days to go directly and confidently to the dining room, and a few more to understand where the Mix piano bar was. To the end, I was still guessing how to find the Hudson Room and the main stage and needing to check with the ‘you are here’ map to confirm which staircase I was at. Every evening after dinner, we'd find a creature folded from a large towel with googly eyes in our stateroom. One evening it was a monkey hanging from a skirt hanger; another it was a dear little mouse on our couch.

What was that wistful feeling? The feeling an only child might have on acquiring a younger sibling. I thought the Zaandam was mine. Who knew that two hours after I locked my stateroom and rolled my purple carry-on to the gangway there would be 1400 people waiting to board and take our place?