The Seabourn Pride's
                Atlantic Crossing

A gibbous moon glides from behind the clouds that separate an inky Atlantic from the nocturnal sky. Moonlight flows like white-silver lava over the swells right to my toes. At its margins, the moon’s lava-path scatters like mercury. Just below my balcony, the silver swells waltz with the ship’s wake. The breeze tosses salty kisses my way. Mesmerized, perhaps bewitched, I do not move until the moon rises towards the dipper and its path dissolves.

"Everyone knows, from books or experience, that living out of sight of any shore does rich and powerfully strange things to humans," wrote MFK Fisher. She was wrong. I had no warning such sweet languor would embrace me mid-ocean.

Pulling away from Fort Lauderdale’s dock, the Seabourn Pride’s March crossing began with a  long, low moan from her horn. A sound filled with such yearning and promise, I felt a pang for those left onshore. As Florida’s lights ebb below the horizon, free time stretches before me—a rare, precious prize. Eleven days will pass before I see land again. Then, after the Island of Madeira, it would be seven more days until we sailed up the river to Seville stopping to visit Casablanca and Cadiz. I anticipate filling my days with reading, writing and exercise. Noble plans that slipped through my open balcony doors, as the sound of the ship’s prow cutting through swells—so like waves on a beach—drifted in.

If I lean fore, then aft, on my just-big-enough-to-stand-on balcony, I can see the Pride’s sleek, pure-white exterior. She’s embellished inside and out with brass and teak and stowed with fine art, fine dining and space. She is not, however, a behemoth. She feels like ship, not a small town. Most ships her size would carry 400 passengers. The Pride squires just 208, but with sufficient staff to run a small country.

The crew keeps busy creating lagniappes like poolside mini-massages, rose petal cascades on my bed and preparing my tub for a long soak in Seamoss Energizing Bath Therapy. In-suite dinners, with the sea’s rustlings and starlight wafting in from open balcony doors, are shared with friends. Dinner is served course by course complete with linen, crystal and flowers. Draperies conceal the suite’s sleeping and dressing quarters. All the Pride’s suites—she has no mere cabins—are large enough for a foursome.

Seabourn doesn’t own up to it, but their room service staff is surely trained by Jewish and Italian mothers. "Oh, Miss Crawford, that is not enough food. There is some nice warm pear strudel down here, couldn’t I bring you a piece?" "Wouldn’t a little lemon crème brûlée taste good after your lunch?" "Shall I bring you a spot of Chamomile tea before bed?" Yes, indeed, and thank you very much. While perhaps these aren’t maternal instincts, it’s not for cash either—Seabourn frowns on tipping.

Given such royal trappings, I did fear hoity-toity-type shipmates. The woman at embarkation waving like the Queen—arm low, wrist straight and revolving from the elbow—gave cause for concern. So did Martha, a Texan writ large, who reigned over dinner the first night. Dressed in a smart knit suit, Martha fingered her beads while expounding on things Texan: "I rode a one-eyed Appaloosa…San Antonia Fiesta Queens wear $75,000 dresses…Barbara, you know, is a dear, very down to earth and Laura is a real lady."

Martha travels with her ninety-four-year-old mother, who Martha says, heads the "Magnolia Mafia." Martha, it goes without saying, is the matriarch-in-waiting. I want to ask her mother, "Is she for real?" However, I inquire more politely, about her other children. "No one is like Martha," she affirms.

The Magnolia Mafia and the woman who waves like the Queen are Seabourn regulars. As I got to know my kind, kooky shipmates, I chalked-up another failed rush to judgment—there’s nothing snooty about them. The Magnolia Mafia even threw an "Island" dinner party for their many friends. Martha brought all the party trimmings with her from Texas including the fresh orchids leis and the ice cubes that light up the drinks.

Our monocled Captain, bejeweled with Martha’s orchids was the guest of honor. Captain Rodahl’s eyes shine from above his round and ruddy Norwegian cheeks. His mustache trails around either side of his smile to join forces with a salt and pepper beard. Full of good cheer and good stories, central casting would be hard pressed to come up with a captain that could upstage ours. The party was "fabulous, just fabulous," just as Martha said it would be.

"Good afternoon, Ladies and Gentleman, this is your captain speaking from the Bridge," we hear just after twelve to mark another day’s passage. The captain informs us just where we are in latitude and degree and our speed in nautical miles. He then discusses "the force"—of the wind, not a deity. The navigator’s less technical description, however, rings true, "Ladies and Gentlemen, we are in the middle of nowhere."

Nowhere proves to be the kind of place that doing not much of anything, in a blissful sort of way, seems a superior pursuit to most everything else. While not dining out—or ringing for room service—I laze on my sofa, book propped-up as if to read, gazing out at the sea. Besides the seascape, I’ve seen one other ship and the pod of whales the Captain announced from his bridge.

I had intended to arrive in Seville a moisturized, detoxified, coiffed and buff woman. The Pride’s gym and spa, fitness instructor, massage therapists and beauty consultants were ready. Aerobics classes, Total Glow self-tanning treatments and personal training sessions were scheduled. Firmatone Aroma Ocean Wraps, Oriental scalp massages and lessons on colors that suit and aromas that soothe beckoned. Yet, I lay becalmed in my suite.

I had intended to improve my mind with books from Pride’s library, attending lectures and taking bridge lessons. I do not. I had thought I might tempt my luck at the game tables—both of them—or perhaps dance into the wee hours. My chamomile nightcap wins out.

The sea’s languorous hold lessens just enough for me to swim in the ship’s pool its waters surging with the sea. I did hear the jazzy harpist play and  attended a spirited cabaret, although the sensuous classical Spanish guitar concerts better fit my mood. Some nights, quite late, I’m drawn to the ship’s fore deck where I know the Jacuzzi will be mine alone. Here, swirled by warm waters and soaking up the stars, I wonder just which star was the first star I saw tonight—so I might get the wish I wished tonight.

"Often…people will become ship addicts, and perjure themselves with trumpery excuses for their trips," wrote MFK Fisher. "I have watched many of them, men and women too, drifting in their drugged ways about the corridors of peacetime lines, their faces full of a contentment never to be found elsewhere."

Seeing a gibbous moon rise over the Pacific is not a trumpery excuse, is it?

By Kate Crawford         November  2002

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