The pros and cons of cons and cruises


I have always been a fan of science fiction - movies, television shows, novels, short stories.  In 
junior high I was a full-fledged member (meaning I had a pin) of the Doctor Who Fan Club of America.  
I've never considered myself a Trekkie, but I won't turn down an opportunity to watch an episode.  And I 
am rabid about anything by the Great Maker himself, J. Michael Straczinsky.  
This little bit of history must be followed up by the explanation that I had always lacked an outlet 
for this enthusiasm.  It is extremely frustrating to want to dissect the latest awe-inspiring episode of 
"Babylon 5" with friends and associates who've never heard of it.  Only recently have I located the 
populous and vocal groups on-line (mostly at www.onelist.com, for anybody who is interested).  Here fans 
can compare and contrast episodes and shows - B5 vs. Star Trek is guaranteed to raise blood pressure - and 
make friends spanning the globe.  Here is also where I found the Sci-Fi Sea Cruise.
At the time I scrounged enough money for a ticket, the guest list included: Peter Davison, the Fifth 
Doctor Who and also recognizable as Tristan from the popular "All Creatures Great and Small" series; 
Peter Woodward, well-known British stage performer and most recently the technomage, Galen, on the B5 
sequel "Crusade" (and son of actor Edward Woodward of "The Equalizer" et al); and Wendy Padbury, Zoe 
Herriott on "Dr Who," invited but not confirmed.  The subsequent hopscotch act of the guests as they 
bowed out due to professional conflicts and were rapidly replaced was a source of extreme frustration but 
also one of tour organizer Dan Harris' greatest achievements.  The fact that we sailed with any guests at all 
is a tribute to Dan's diligence and determination.  When we finally got on the boat, our special guests were 
Wendy, John Levene (Sgt. Benton on "Dr Who") and Carrie Dobro (Dureena on "Crusade").
Enough of that, let's get on the plane.  Flight 786 from DFW to MIA.  It was drizzling in 
Arlington.  Not really cold, just a little cool and very, very wet.  I had arranged for a late checkout and 
shuttle to the airport at 2:00.  Dragging my precious possessions into the lobby, I noticed the shuttle had not 
been pulled around yet.
	"Is someone available to take me to the airport?" I asked innocently.
The girl at the front desk stared blankly at me.  
	"Eric put me down for a shuttle at 2:00?" I offered.  I watched as she flipped through blank pieces 
of paper.  "He wrote my name down for 2:00 today."  It was true; I saw him do it.
	"I'll get someone.  It'll be about 5 minutes."
	No problem.  5 minutes.  I had allowed myself almost 2 hours before my scheduled departure 
time.  I usually counted my lead-time in minutes.  I made one last trip to my car to rummage for some 
"necessities" which had only just occurred to me.  My computer was equipped with a CD player, so I had 
packed a few choice tunes, but not everyone shares my taste, so I wanted to use headphones.  I had had 
"earbuds" in the car at one time (back before I got the auto cassette adapter to work), but I could find them 
nowhere.  I did, however, have one "Eureka!" moment when I unearthed the liner notes from "Fly," which 
I had thought lost forever.  I went back into the dry shelter of the hotel lobby.
	"I called the shuttle driver.  He's already left Dallas," was the update offered by the clerk.
	I panicked momentarily.  "Where in Dallas.  It takes me an hour to get to Dallas!"
	"He's 10, maybe 15 minutes away."  I recalculated my timetable.  It was only 20 after 2.  I 
remembered Walgreen's.
	"Be right back!"  I sprinted to the car.  10 minutes later I returned, complete with earphones and 
luggage locks.  The shuttle driver arrived.
	After bundling my baggage in the back of the van, we started off.  
	"Which airline?"  I knew that one.
	"American."
	"American has three terminals.  Which one?"  He won - I was stumped.  I couldn't think of 
anyone to call on my handy, dandy cell phone to find out.  He, of course, had no phone book in the van.  
"I'll take you to 3.  Most domestic flights leave out of 3.  If not, you can take the transport to 2."  Okay, 
good thinking.
	As we pulled into the airport, I saw signs for American information - #AA on your cell phone.  I 
quickly dialed to find that I had no service so close to the towers.  Finally the call went through.  It was a 
computerized service, prompting me to voice my answers to the following questions:
	"What is your flight number?"
	"Seven eighty-six."
	"Arrival or departure?"
	"Departure."
	"Today, tomorrow, or."
	"Today."
	"Please wait until the end of the question before responding.  Today, tomorrow, or an alternate 
date?"
	"Today."
	"You are inquiring about flight 76 departing today.  Is this correct?"
	"No."
	"What would you like to change, the flight number or the departure date?"
	The gates loomed nearer.  "Flight number."
	"What is your flight number?"
	I was very careful this time.  "Seven, eight, six."
	Just in time the voice told me I would be departing out of terminal 3, gate C8.
	We arrived curbside, luggage checked, uneventfully.  I passed through the security checkpoint 
behind a woman carrying an enormous puppy.  He had the black-and-brown coloring of a Rottweiler and 
the body of a Saint Bernard.  Mom, if you're reading this, that's what I want for Christmas.  The gate was 
miraculously just to the left of the security entrance.  I claimed my boarding pass from the desk without a 
wait and found an empty seat.  I unpacked "Diplomatic Acts" from my backpack and settled down for a 
read.  One chapter later (with people periodically glancing my way, alerted by my audible chuckles), the 
plane was ready for boarding.  I gathered my ungainly belongings and went to stand in line.  
	As you know, the process of getting on and settled into a plane is less noteworthy than the process 
of getting your boarding pass.  Suffice it to say, I found my aisle seat and tried to get comfortable.  I 
already had to go to the bathroom, but there was a steady wave of people up and down the aisle.  
Eventually, a member of the mass broke off to claim the window seat next to me.  Thank the gods for this 
one!
	My companion for this voyage was a perfectly charming, handsome young man from England.  
That's three for three in my book!  We had quite a bit of time to talk, being, as we were, the filling in an 
airplane sandwich.  The poor weather was causing backups in departures, so we sat on the tarmac and 
waited our turn.  
	No sooner had we cleared the thick cloud cover and rediscovered sunlight, the plane began to buck 
like an enraged bull.  The plane lurched in every direction at once.  My fingers became one with the metal 
armrests.  I closed my eyes and murmured, "God, I love you, but I don't wanna come home now!"  Strange 
noises were coming from passengers throughout the 737.  My seatmate sat placidly.  
	"Are you all right?"
	"I don't know.  Am I?"  I was by no means sure of the correct answer to this question as we 
continued our roller-coaster ride, sans the comfort of rickety rails tethering us to earth.  
	This continued for several minutes, realistically.  Perception of time being as it is, it could have 
easily been several lifetimes.
	Even as the plane ceased its mid-air ricochet, I was afraid to let go of the arms of my seat, lest they 
slip out from under me.  But we continued in a relatively straightforward manner.
	Michael, my new friend, entertained me by telling me about the "busses with wings" run by 
British Airways for short jaunts to the European continent.  Roughly rectangular in aspect with propellers 
jutting out on either side, these small, ungainly crafts fly when England's inclement weather grounds the 
other flights.  He had been flying on a particularly overcast day and the plane was coming in on approach.  
Michael watched through the bus' window for some sight of land.  The pea soup cleared and Michael 
immediately realized they were inches from the ground coming in at an unlikely slant.  At the critical 
moment, the pilot righted the little pondjumper and brought all in for a safe landing.
	Whether this story was meant to reassure or distract me, I'm not sure.
	Our pilot crackled on the intercom, announcing that we had been "dodging the storm system" and 
as soon as we were completely clear, he would allow us to peel ourselves off of our seats.  The bell 
sounded and the lighted image of a belt buckle clicked off.
	"That's my cue," I explained as I crawled to the nearest lavatory to relieve my abused bladder.
	The remainder of the flight was uneventful.  The usual bits of turbulence, Michael calling my 
attention to a particularly beautiful sunset visible from our side of the plane, vegetarianism flying out the 
window in the face of a heavenly-smelling turkey cheese wrap, hot from, from what?  What do they use to 
heat food on an airplane in the middle of what feels like plummeting to the ground?  Anyway, my sniffer 
smelled good food, my stomach responded by churning, and I wolfed down wrap, potato chips, and cookie.
	I pointed out the advertising campaign on the front of the Ruffles wrapper.  "The more potato 
potato chip."  We agreed this was to differentiate it from those other potato chips that use less potato.
	I really felt I had made an impression on my attractive companion when he asked if I'd like to 
exchange e-mail addresses.  Of course I wanted to exchange e-mail addresses!  If the turbulence had lasted 
much longer, I was signing up for the mile-high club!  I satisfied myself with the fact that, if I leaned over 
to look out the window, I was close enough to smell his cologne.
	Unloading from the plane, I was reminded that Marcie, my tripmate, and I had never made any 
firm plans to meet up.  I knew she'd need me - the hotel reservations were in my name.  She had my flight 
information and I knew she landed significantly ahead of me.  I looked around the gate.  No familiar face.  
Familiar feeling from bladder.  I made my way to the bathroom.
	Feeling better, I returned to the gate and looked around.  Nope.  Well, if I didn't find her at the 
baggage claim, I could a) have her paged; b) attempt to identify her flight and check for delays; c) call 
Mom in Oklahoma so she could panic for me.  I scanned the gates and shops on both sides of the walkway 
as I headed for baggage claim.
	I needn't have worried.  Marcie was waiting at the end of the gateway.  My little detour to the 
bathroom meant that I had not appeared with the last swell of passengers, and she had been worried.  We 
wound our way to baggage claim, where it took an unreasonable amount of time to get to my suitcase.  By 
now I realized I was by no means sure of the name of our hotel and I hadn't a clue as to its address.  We 
walked to the curb and waited for a cell signal.
	I have the phone number for my hotel in Texas programmed on my phone.  I knew we were 
staying at the same chain, so I called them and made the girl on duty look up the name and address of the 
Clarion Suites on Miami Beach.  Marcie and I identified a reasonably friendly looking cab driver with 
sparkling gold crowns across his front teeth, the ones with the tooth-colored resin windows in the front that 
were often requested in the dental office out of cosmetic desire rather than medical need.  
We caught one another up on our flights while marveling at "beach architecture," palm trees 
festooned with Christmas lights, and finally, water, as we crossed the Biscayne Bay.
After passing scores of exotic hotels lit up like Las Vegas, I was a tad disappointed that the 
entrance to our hotel was completely uninviting, accessible from an alley off Collins Ave.  The lobby was 
bright pink marble, or at least simulated marble.  We checked in and were given our keys.  Fourth floor.  
Well, I guessed we would not be able to open our door and step onto sand.  We found our room and threw 
open the curtains.  Directly beyond our window lay.the other tower of the U-shaped hotel.  Peering out 
into the darkness at a right angle to the wall, it was possible there was water out there.
	The room itself was nice enough - a main room the size of a standard hotel room with hide-a-bed, 
kitchenette, TV, VCR, digital radio playing soothing classical music.  The back wall was mirrored.  
Adjoining was the bedroom, with a bed set only barely two feet off of the floor.  There was an additional 
TV in there and a mirrored wall but, strangely, no closet.  Accessible from both rooms was the functional 
bathroom.  The d‚cor was early pink-and-malachite, a fond memory for all interior decorators practicing in 
the early 80s.  Once the radio threatened to move on to the Frank Sinatra hour, I found the more appropriate 
oldies station (I still find it insulting that the music of my youth - the late, late 70's and early 80's, is now 
"classic").   I took a few snapshots for later.  I would have liked a room with a view or perhaps leading out 
onto the sand, but hell, free room.  Or at least it will be free tomorrow once I can call Guest Privileges and 
find out why the front desk does not have my vouchers.
	Encouraged by the thought that what was visible if we held each other's ankles and leaned out the 
window might, indeed, be surf, Marcie and I headed downstairs and out into the alley.  There, just beyond 
the street and over a small bridge, was beach!  We walked to the water's edge and commiserated that we 
had brought no men.  The sky was laced with clouds revealing very few stars, and the air was heavy with 
spray and salt.  We stayed only a moment before turning back to the hotel, overcome by the thought that we 
were actually here.

Sunday morning, early am

The lady with the breakfast cart knocked as though she thought we might be several hundred yards 
from the door.  Thoughts of Denny's dancing in my head, I incoherently chased her from my patch of 
hallway.  I could hear her assault on the next dozen doors.  Remembering Marcie and I had not eaten since 
the plane rides yesterday (well, I had a protein bar, but my stomach had been quick to inform me that that 
was not going to count), I momentarily considered running her down and gathering provisions, but I had 
read the Guest Directory last night and it had made no mention of complimentary breakfasts.  Whatever she 
had could not be worth paying for.  I drifted back to sleep.
	I had decided at bedtime that I, being no longer than the width of the hide-a-bed, would sleep on it 
as a couch.  I discovered pillows in one of the closets in the front room and lay back to enjoy the gentle 
lapping of the waves only just audible through the window.  Unfortunately, audible above the volume of 
the waves was an electrical humming, as though our room were situated atop a generator used to power 
greater Miami.  I hadn't noticed it with the music playing, but now it was persistent.  I fumbled in my 
suitcase for earplugs, the fluorescent foam kind which, once stuffed into your aural canal, continue making 
expanding-foam noises for several minutes.  I fell asleep.  I know this because I dreamt of wearing 
earplugs.  "The man of my dreams" as it were was attempting to talk to me - sweet nothings, I'm sure - but 
when I took the earplugs out, the situation was as soundless as ever.  I awoke disappointed and grappled for 
another set of earplugs.  All in all I went through three sets of plugs throughout the night.  I ended up with 
an odd number of plugs and wonder seriously what the housekeeper - or worse, the next guest - would 
think, stumbling upon a neon foam suppository.
	Ah, the cushions!  This couch was designed for admiring from a distance, not for closer inspection 
or, heavens forbid, lying on.  The foam cushions that separated the hide-a-bed portion from the couch 
fa‡ade were roughly _ of an inch thick.  Every time I rolled towards the edge, the metal bar that normally 
lay benignly at one's middle back pressed into my side.  
	A storm moved in early in the morning, causing an impressive-sounding wind to howl between the 
wings of our building.  This small movement of air through the window inspired our front door to rattle and 
bump on its hinges.  I struggled to get up and shove a face towel under the door to hold it still.  These 
myriad little noises between sets of earplugs along with the less-than-luxurious sleeping arrangements 
conspired to rob me of what might have been a restful beginning to my vacation.  I held firmly to thoughts 
of catnapping on the beach, the sun gently caressing my bare skin.
When I could no longer keep up the pretense of sleep, I rose, brushed my teeth and hair, and left 
Marcie a note to meet me on the beach so we could get breakfast.  This was 10 Florida time, a mere 9 in the 
morning to my internal clock.  Pulling on a light sweater to counter the mild breeze, I sank to ground level 
and emerged into the alleyway.  I turned towards the beach and was assaulted by tiny raindrops against my 
face.  Remembering nothing resembling shelter on the beach, I trudged towards the little bridge anyway.  
At the top of the bridge, the wind still batting rain at me, I decided a photo of the barren, gray beach, water 
marbleized with olive seaweed and looking less than inviting, would be appropriate.  I wiped the moisture 
from the camera case and returned to the hotel.
	While typing on the computer, I noticed occasional sunlight dancing on the screen.  I finished up 
my work and decided to brave the great outdoors once again.  Pulling a sweatshirt over a tanktop, I grabbed 
my stuff.  
Although it was wet and windy, the rain had passed.  There were few others on the beach, so I 
chose a patch of sand and settled in.  The temperature was mild and the breeze soothing.  I sat and watched 
the tide swell and recede.  I sat and watched as gulls bobbed like balloons tethered to a souvenir cart.  I sat 
and watched the massive clouds drift north and allow the sun a foothold.  I pulled off my sweatshirt and let 
the sun pour over my arms.  I laid back to watch the soft white clouds replace the dull gray ones.  I noticed 
the soft white clouds seemed unaware that they were floating rapidly in the wrong direction.  I'm not being 
judgmental, but I could feel the wind blowing from the southeast, the direction in which the clouds were 
heading.  But the clouds, being but wisps of semi-liquid water vapor, were totally unaffected by this.  I 
closed my eyes.
	Later, while sitting up, enjoying the sunshine and surf, a trio of young men walked behind me.  
One looked down and said, "Hello, how are you?"  I found the Floridians nothing if not friendly.
	"Fine.  And how are you?"  The young man crouched while his friends continued a bit down the 
beach.
	"Como se'yama?"  Uh, oh.  Conversation grinds to a halt.
	"I'm sorry.  I don't understand Spanish."  I wish I did, but I don't.  I know I look like I should.
	"What's your name?" he translated with a thick accent.
	"Zoe.  And yours?"
	"Ramon."  Rolled `r.'
	We continued to talk, Ramon telling me of the big concert on South Beach on New Year's Eve 
featuring the Gipsy Kings and Blondie.  He recited his favorite musicians: Led Zeppelin, the Wilson sisters 
from Heart, Fleetwood Mac.  He also insisted I come down to the water's edge and feel how warm the 
water was.  I never realized "warm" meant something completely different in Spanish.
	Finally, Ramon with the rolled "r" decided to return to his friends.  I laid my only Spanish 
vocabulary on him.  "Adios, Ramon," I said in what I thought to be a reasonable accent.
	"Hasta la vista, my friend," he returned, having told me he thought my name was very difficult to 
pronounce, unlike his own name, rolled "r" and all.
	Io:  feel free to turn this into a sex on the beach scene in your imagination.
	I could see Ramon and his friends cavorting in the waves in my peripheral vision, but was still 
much too focused on my hunger and the fact that Marcie had not appeared yet.
	A large couple "of a certain age" plopped their belongings in a vacancy near me and wandered off.  
I wondered what it was about leaving your stuff next to someone who would have to go to great effort to 
rise to steal your things.  They returned and weighted their towels down with their combined masses.  
Seagulls began orbiting.  I became intrigued by the unusual cut of the woman's maillot.  I looked closer and 
realized in horror that that particular roll of white skin was her breast!  Io, don't you dare turn *this * into a 
beach sex scene!  I looked away before my eyes began to melt.
	Well, Marcie did eventually appear and we walked to Denny's and had a reasonable satisfying 
meal.  To summarize the hours on the beach that followed, here is a bit of prose/poetry, guaranteed to be 
better than anything by Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz:

I stole the beach's jewels
In broad daylight.
I took her rubies, her amber,
Her tigers' eye and amethyst.
But I did not leave her unadorned.
I left her filigreed with golden seaweed,
Hung with brilliant burgundy corals
And azure balloon jellyfish.
And kaliedoscopic sand which memorized the shape of my sole
And gave it to the sea.

***

The sea gives up her treasures grudgingly,
Laying out her wares for all to see,
But if you stoop to touch, she swoops
And gathers them again.

***

Swimming-pool green water strewn with seaweed
Toy boats bob in the distance.
Manhattan clouds rise on the horizon.
Gulls run in mid-air
Like Coyote off a cliff.
A boy plays with a stone, 
Using it as a senseless organ to prod
The mounds of flotsam littering the beach.
Putting on the dress his mother gave him
He prepares for home
Little sister cocooned in the car seat.
Hints of robin's egg blue
Remind me of the sunshine
But I cannot identify my brother Sol
Behind his weighty shroud.
The towers behind me,
Failing in their search for glory,
Should look instead for weather-resistant paint.
A god and goddess walk
Hand in hand
Oblivious to the waves kissing their feet.
A gull pays homage, 
Bowing low to accept the wafer
Tossed casually over their shoulders.

Enough poetry, I'm going to eat.  For dinner, Marcie and I found an atmospherically casual Italian 
restaurant with elegant prices.  I had to negotiate for a half-order of four-cheese gnocchi - a whole order 
would have required a serving platter rather than a plate.  Then we shared a "surprise" dessert - a particular 
yellow cake with chocolate swirls and ice cream.  We made appreciative noises for our waiter, who was 
inexcusably proud of his concoction.  I say "particular yellow cake" for a reason - the entire restaurant was 
festooned with red boxes of all sizes, boxes of these prepackaged Italian cakes.  These little cake boxes 
represented the main feature of the d‚cor.  They were dense little bundt-like cakes like the kind used as a 
base for rumcackes.  Apparently quite a delicacy in the old country.  For the prices, the food was good.  
And the waiter was handsome and very friendly.  I think Marcie was trying to figure out how to get him in 
a suitcase.

Monday

Seeing as how we slept in and had little time for lounging on the beach, it was a beautiful, sunny 
day.  We did spend an hour or two playing with the seagulls.  Collecting our luggage from the attendant, we 
bustled into a cab and rode down to the port.  Entering the stark box of a building on the edge of the water, 
we were confronted with several hundred of our soon-to-be shipmates.  The line moved smoothly as we 
cleared customs.  We continued through to present our tickets, gain our room keys, and submit to assault by 
the ship photographer, the whole trip counterpointed by trips up escalators and along moving sidewalks.

Entering the ship, I was unamazed.  You come in in the middle of the ship, inside a sea of bodies, 
and work your way immediately to your cabin.  It is not as if you are escorted through the front door and 
presented with any of the fantastic views the ship actually has to offer.  But by this point, you feel lucky to 
have a place to sit down.  In our room we found - our other roommate!  Initial nervousness made way to 
fast friendship as we headed towards the sunshine and the booze.

Now, bear in mind, I am not a great drinker.  Not because I have any moral objections, as I do 
with meat not served on an airplane when I am way past famished, but simply because I haven't found 
much that tasted good.  Well, we found three lounge chairs on the top deck, flagged down a waitress and 
ordered the special of the day - four kinds of alcohol and five different fruit juices.  We wrapped our lips 
around the straws, sucked, and immediately our faces turned inside out.  "Sour," we mumbled through 
pursed lips.  Of course like most alcoholic beverages, the body's automatic defense mechanisms blot out 
any actual taste fairly quickly, and I was able to finish about two-thirds of mine.  My companions finished 
theirs with no ill effects.  We wondered aloud when we would have the opportunity to meet our fellow sci-
fi seafarers.  Gillian was fairly certain she'd recognize Dan, whom she had pegged in the airport as the one 
holding the sign which said, "Padbury."  But no sign-wielding Dan in sight.  The clouds rolled in.

The strange noise coming over the loudspeaker seemed to indicate that we were getting ready to 
move.  We speculated about whether or not it was compulsory that the announcements be completely 
unrecognizable as speech and imagined classes to teach ship staff to mumble, much in the same way 
doctors are taught to write illegibly.  We walked to the other side of the ship to watch the Florida beach slip 
away.   We received a fine send-off from a pod of dolphins cavorting in the marina.

Much of the rest of our free time between launch and dinner (*g*) was taken up with a hideous 
little exercise called a "lifeboat drill," wandering the ship trying not to get lost (the ship got a little smaller 
every day - the only thing I could not find on my own was the dining room;  I had to be led there), and then 
getting ready for dinner.  

Dinner on the ship was a dress-up affair, or at least a good excuse to dress up, and as we found our 
table we met the first bunch of fellow fans (of course we were mostly fans of different things, but that made 
no difference).  At our table were Dan, Peter, Bret, Stephen, and two empty seats.  Dan welcomed us and 
explained there had been a get-together at 4 to which we should have received invitations.  About half of 
our group showed up, the others as oblivious as Marcie and Gill and I were.  In the midst of introductions 
and explanations, a distinguished gentleman and lovely young woman arrived at our table with a flurry of 
apologies, they had been stopped in the hallway by two Dr Who fans completely unrelated to our little 
group.  The newcomers turned out to be John (Woods) Levene and his wife Jennifer.

John "Sgt. Benton" Levene takes his responsibilities as an entertainer seriously.  He made it his 
aim to keep us entertained throughout the entire evening with stories from the set, his childhood, his current 
projects, and threw in gags he'd borrowed from the likes of Bob Hope and the inimitable Jon Pertwee.  He 
brought us into the conversation by asking each of us to name our favorite doctor (I waited with baited 
breath for Marcie's answer to that one).  He also asked us for our perspective on the whole fan-celebrity 
issue, to which I apparently gave an eloquent answer, which, due to the adrenaline associated with saying 
more than my name in from of a whole table of strangers, I have completely forgotten. 

I stole looks at the other two tables to try to identify Carrie, Wendy, and Janice (who had e-mailed 
me a photograph).  I could pick out Carrie despite the abrupt change from Dureena.  Here was a beauty, 
with shoulder-length dark hair, dark eyes, and a normal-sized forehead.  I had to get used to it.  I couldn't 
identify Wendy until she was pointed out to me, having seen her only in "The Five Doctors" some fifteen 
years ago.  We did not actually meet until the second evening, the Captain's cocktail party before dinner.  
She spotted us (the three musketeers) at the end of the row and realized we'd not met.  She squeezed 
through the theater seats with incredible ease.  

"Hello, I'm Wendy.  Lovely to meet you," she beamed.

"Nice to meet you.  I'm Zoe."

"So am I!" she exclaimed.  She is still the leading candidate for having her picture next to the 
word "impish" in the dictionary.  Her vibrancy and spirit belie her chronological age.  She is indeed age-
less.  And for the record, I'm taller.

Carrie and her husband Mark Ciglar were at our table the second night.  Mark is also an actor, and 
a director, and he teaches Shakespeare scene study.  And he is absolutely a babe.  What a couple, still 
honeymooners, it seemed.  Carrie is fantastic, outrageous, outspoken, very New York.  Mark waited until 
she was engrossed in a conversation with someone at the next table before he asked us, "So is Carrie 
anything like her character (Dureena)?"  He had this impish HOW ABOUT PUCKISH, YOU'VE JUST 
USED IMPISHlook on his face.  We considered Dureena's straightforward manner, her independence, her 
unwillingness to suffer fools, imagined her fighting off a half-dozen of the Earth Alliance's finest guards, 
and then had to pick ourselves up off the floor from laughing so hard.  To her credit, Carrie was not 
accused of stealing anything during the duration of the cruise.

After dinner we had our formal picture taken.  We wound our way down to the lower deck, during 
which time I confided in Mark that I wasn't the Whovian most of our group were, that I was really a wild 
fan of "Crusade."  He encouraged me to tell Carrie.  It was not overtly apparent, but since this was 
primarily a Dr Who-inspired cruise, most of the fans were there for John and Wendy.  Some of the fans had 
not even had the opportunity to watch "Crusade."  Carrie seemed to appreciate the fact that I adored the 
show and she agreed with me as to its quality and potential.  I already knew there was no news regarding its 
return, that the contracts had expired, and the actors had been told nothing further.  In line for the photo, 
Carrie told us about David Allen Brooks and the infamous tango scene.  I'd read in an interview with David 
that he had been terribly nervous about the whole thing and that he was surprised and honored when it 
appeared on the opening credits.  Carrie is a dancer, first and foremost, so the scene was a no-brainer for 
her.  For David, however, it was a nightmare.  He hired a dance "tutor" to prepare him for the scene.  As we 
now know, it turned out fantastic.

After the photo, a group of us went to the only lounge on the ship without music.  This was the 
"sports bar."  I say that because they had a big-screen TV that ran sports most of the day.  Actually, it was a 
quiet, comfortable bar with big sofas and overstuffed chairs.  I chatted mostly with Carrie, still grateful for 
the opportunity to bond.  Wendy and Simon, whom I had not yet met, were in our party and the gentle 
banter between Carrie and those two brought me to realize that from Carrie, "the bird" is a high 
compliment.  I endeavored to be worthy of such a term of endearment.  This was the night I discovered 
Sambuca.  I asked our waitress, Diana (with whom we'd become quite chummy the previous night over a 
discussion of cherries - mostly those that did or did not come with our drinks and the fact that Marcie's 
sank) to make a recommendation.  I asked what it tasted like and was met with a chorus of "It's anisine" 
from Carrie, Wendy, and Simon.  Strangely this has become a private joke, even as the drink has become a 
favorite.  I don't eat the coffee beans.

The following day was our first excursion.  Marcie took the rum ship trip while Gill and I did the 
island tour with the rest of our group.  Well, I say that, but in actuality, we ended up the only members of 
our entourage on the second bus.  We intersected at Hell briefly then met up at Stingray City.  But first the 
island tour.  Georgetown, the capital of Grand Cayman, is not very impressive from the water.  It gets better 
close up, but if they were looking for "shore appeal," they missed.  From the bus we were treated to views 
of all the hotels and condos which line the beach, along with price ranges.  The guide explained about the 
strange legal land-ownership issues which make it even more expensive to live here, plus some mention of 
the price of milk.  We viewed the governor's house, then stopped at Hell only long enough to buy some 
postcards and snap one or two photos.  The other group stayed an even shorter time, having sat outside the 
governor's mansion so long Simon finally asked, "Well, is the governor coming to see us then?"  The 
answer was negative, so Simon asked the guide to kindly move on, then.  Apparently other than that, the 
tour guide was totally unintelligible, having gone to the same public speaking class as our cruise director.  

Also on the tour was a stop at the turtle farm.  Once off the bus, you proceed through a small lunch 
room where they serve fresh turtle soup and sandwiches.  Moving right along, you go through a small 
sandy courtyard flanked by lizards and things in cages (I think they were capybaras).  Then you begin to 
pass the tanks of turtles.  First the yearlings, then the two year-olds, then the threes, then the sign that 
explains that turtles are processed between three and four, then an empty tank!  Someone later suggested 
they just boil the turtles right there in the threes tank (yech).  There is also a simulated beach where turtle 
mothers lay their eggs, only to have them collected and incubated elsewhere.  Despite the heavy industry in 
turtle-related products, the center releases thousands of turtles into the ocean each year.

Next stop, Stingray City.  Our entire party met up in time to get on what I shall loosely refer to as 
a boat.  It was on the water and it had an engine of sorts and we scooted around the coastline until we got to 
the "spot."  During the voyage we were treated to a dissertation of the use of the provided snorkel 
equipment.  It was just as well I brought my own stuff, as I couldn't understand the speaker.  Of course, I 
didn't realize that, because I had not used the snorkel in many years, it did not work as I had thought.  
Instead of a ball, it had a valve.  I discovered the following day, quite by accident, that you clear water from 
the valve by placing your palm over the end of the tube and blowing, thus expelling all the water just below 
the mouthpiece.  The entire time I was at Stingray City, I kept spouting uselessly out the top, expelling 
nothing but air.  

I had also thought to bring underwater cameras, but others bought them on the boat ($20 each).  
Carrie was not to be encouraged into the water, and as I was still her faithful little puppy, I assigned myself 
to getting pictures of Mark with the stingrays.  He returned the favor by photographing me.  It was not an 
easy task, buffeted by waves, surrounded by two boats-worth of people in the shallower bits, me drowning 
in my snorkel ..   It did not help matters that the stingrays were enormous and persistent.  It didn't seem to 
matter that we had neglected to grab any food on the way off the boat, I felt one nibble on my hand 
anyway.  I took several pictures of Mark trying to run from the stingrays, but as he gathered his courage the 
stingrays wandered off in search of an easier target.  Determined to get a prize-winning photo of Mark and 
a ray, I bobbed over to the food and grabbed the last handful of raw squid.  I promise I got no pleasure out 
of plopping the mess in Mark's hand.  Armed with sushi, Mark tempted the rays in for photographs.  The 
photos from the boat are courtesy of Carrie, who stopped laughing long enough to take some pictures.

We returned to the boat and gratefully cleaned up for dinner.  When I got to the table, Wendy was 
sitting in my seat!  She and Simon had dispensed with the tradition of sitting side by side for sitting across 
(and sometimes tossing food).  That left me next to Simon, whom I still hadn't met.  I need to say at this 
point that Peter, usually on my right at meals and always very quietly observant, was well lubricated from a 
stint of karaoke earlier with Lisa.  Seems they sang "I've Got You Babe" and he needed some alcoholic 
encouragement.  He was now garrulous, apologizing every five minutes or so for anything he might say out 
of turn.  I had a perfect view of Saint Wendy as she smiled and nodded.  Peter's antics notwithstanding 
(precious few of which were preserved on Dan's camcorder, I'm sad to say), this gave me the opportunity 
to get to know Simon, journalist extraordinaire.  He writes for several publications, often interviewing Dr 
Who alums (surprise, surprise).  He was also working on his first audio script with former schoolmate 
Colin Hill.  This was to be the stylishly-produced, cerebral "Old Soldiers."  Simon, like Mark, is a total 
babe and enormous fun to talk to.  

I haven't spoken much on the food on the ship.  Everything is fantastic.  I always had a vegetarian 
option, or I could have just had my fill of dessert.  Our waiter, Orlando, was friendly and efficient.  He 
seemed to take a particular shine to Gillian.  She denies this, of course.  We always had dinner together, our 
three tables in close proximity, and the celebs and spouses rotated tables - we had John and Jenny the first 
and fourth nights, Carrie and Mark the second and fifth, and Wendy and Simon in the middle.  Lunchtimes 
were more sparse in the dining room as many preferred one of the more informal venues - the buffets on-
deck or aft, or the pizzeria.  The pizzeria, god-bless-it, is open 24 hours.  More than one night I had pizza at 
3 am, there not being much else to do at that hour.  Most of us didn't encounter breakfast unless we had to 
leave early for shore leave.  

This is as good a time as any to discuss John and his relationship with food.  First there is John 
and tea.  In usual form, John captured Orlando and demanded to know why, with the large number of 
Britons on the boat, especially in the crew, it was utterly impossible to get a decent cup of tea.  "A decent 
cup of tea" involves loose tea brought to the edge of a boil and allowed to steep exactly seven minutes.  It 
must be served in a teapot and the bits of tea strained out while you pour.  This gave me an idea.  While 
Gill and I were on Grand Cayman, we sought out a little grocery store and I bought some tea which Gill 
assured me was the brand she bought at home.  Armed with authentic English tea (in bags, though - don't 
tell John), we returned to the ship and sought out Orlando.  Gillian repeated the precise instructions for 
properly brewing tea, making a small adjustment for the lack of a proper teapot on board.  At the 
conclusion of that night's dinner, Orlando appeared at the table with a carafe of tea, properly steeped, 
swaddled in a white napkin.  John literally beamed.  He was touched that Orlando had gone to such efforts, 
and knew Gill and I were responsible from our guilty expressions (everyone else looked rather clueless at 
the whole thing).

Then there is John and ice cream.  I must first state that John and Jenny, well, for that matter, all 
the "special" guests, are the pictures of health.  John and Jenny participate in an odd form of extreme sport 
that involves jogging up a mountain, then running as fast as possible down the sheer side of it, all the while 
trying to avoid rattlesnakes and breaking anything.  So when I mention John and ice cream, don't imagine 
Sgt Benton twenty years later, succumbing to middle-age spread.  As you can see from the photos, he is 
quite handsome.  But he loves ice cream.  

One of the more popular options for desert is a tiny bowl of ice cream with chocolate sauce.  One 
lunchtime John was requesting a third and fourth diminutive sundae (alternating chocolate and vanilla ice 
cream) when Jenny leaned over and quietly reminded him, "The ice cream social is at 4 o'clock."  He 
reconsidered and asked for just one more sundae.  At one point, we were playing follow-the-leader and 
John led us through the aft buffet area.  I teased him that he just wanted to pass the soft-serve machine.  At 
another occasion I scolded him for having been dismissed from same buffet for sucking the soft-serve out 
of the nozzles (yes, I was making that up, but John responds very well to a loving joke).  Since this makes 
me think of it, I ought to say that, despite John's unrestrained spirit, Jenny is not his shadow.  She is soft-
spoken and gentle and quite a bit younger than John, but intelligent and amicable.  She is an executive with 
Warner Brothers, in the theatrical production division, I believe.  Mention was made to passing the likes of 
Schwarzenneger in the hallways.  She also crochets.

	Where was I?  Oh yes, we'd just finished dinner and Peter was providing entertainment.  This was 
Wednesday and the trip's half over (or half under, depending on your viewpoint).  The usual group went to 
the lounge for an aperitif.  I stopped by the cabin to change into jeans, my explanation to the only one who 
asked being, I wanted to give my cabin-mates the night off from making sure I didn't show my ass in the 
little tiny skirts I wore to dinner.  Well, it was the truth!  This was the evening Wendy and Simon explained 
finally what "panto" is.  I now know all about the major players and how the lead is a girl playing a boy 
(like Mary Martin in Peter Pan) and he ends up with the girl (played by a girl) and how the main comedic 
character is the Dame, the flamboyant female impersonator (no, not in the story.  It's just another man 
playing a woman).  And about how audience participation is fundamental and there are stock phrases and 
poses and all this was derived from commedia dell'arte.  Okay, so I supplemented my knowledge with Paul 
Cornell's Benny audio, "Oh No It Isn't," a double treat not only because it is set in panto-land, but also 
features the dreaded weapon, the A-bomb.  Yes, you've guessed it, "A" for anisine!

	Some went to bed now and the others went off in search of new entertainment, Peter having 
wandered off some time ago.  We ended up in the bar off the disco featuring the musical stylings of the 
mumbling cruise director's band.  They were misnamed at any rate, not using any synonym for "awful."  
Dan fell asleep and started snoring, Gill and Marcie looked bored, and Simon and I made fun of the music.  
He likes all sorts of bands I've never heard of, and the Beatles.  We escaped to the deck and some fresh air.  
After a short walk around, I returned to the cabin and the snoring of my companions.  I tossed around on 
my little cot for a while and eventually wandered out for another mid-night pizza.  The highlight of 
entertainment at 3 in the morning is watching the crew vacuum.  And polish miles of brass.  Even the last 
noisy bar closes at 3.  It is very strange.  The only people up that late are the workers and the performers, 
still high from the last performance.  Carrie insisted on watching the "Las Vegas-style" shows.  They were 
okay.  The singing could have been better and I'm no judge of dancing.

	The others had to get up early the next morning to catch the bus to Chichen Itza.  My tour didn't 
leave until 10.  We went first to Tulum, a later and smaller ruin on the coast (the Mayans were getting 
pretty sick of rebuilding by this time).  Iguanas are a real problem as they crawl all over everything and 
scratch the eroding stones with their claws.  The weather was hot and breezy and the views of the ocean 
magnificent.  I got a picture of a particularly regal iguana before a touristo chased it down into a crevice.  I 
informed him that, deprived the use of his tail and claws for defense, the iguana would have no qualms 
about biting any stubby fingers poked into his hole and that the razor-like nubs could do quite a bit of 
damage.  The touristo withdrew.  The only other group member at Tulum was Stephen.  Stephen takes shy 
to new heights.  I practically had to throw rocks at him to get his attention when I finally caught up to him.  
I was on top of a platform about 8 feet high, next to the great pyramid.  I coaxed him in front of the 
pyramid for a photo.  He eventually thought it was a good idea and had me take one with his camera.  

	From there, we proceeded to Xelha (pronounced shell-ha).  Now this was paradise.  Rows of 
hammocks tied to palm trees, dolphins cavorting (we were not told Xelha offered swimming with the 
dolphins because we missed the last available time), an innertubable lazy river (you check your belongings 
at the top and they are transported to the bottom for you), and the world's largest natural aquarium.  The 
reefs grow all the way around so you snorkel in a completely protected lagoon.  No sharks.  The water is a 
mixture of warm springs and cold ocean drifts and you experience the changes in temperature as you float.  
The most interesting aquatic life is found around the rocks, so I saw no advantage to swimming farther out.

	Returning to the ship exhausted and exhilarated and with a new hammock chair in tow (and a little 
birthday present for Bret), I dressed found Marcie and we prepared for dinner.  Marcie had taken the 
Cancun shopping tour and had come back loaded - t-shirts, hand-loomed rugs, a silver ring, she had it all.  
The others arrived late for dinner, disgruntled but dry.  It seems no sooner had they finished lunch and 
started the tour than it began to rain.  No, not just rain, an immediate drenching down-pour.  Soaked to the 
skin, the tour group huddled under the little cover provided by the interpretive center.  They saw only a 
portion of the site and rode back on the bus, not a stitch of dry cloth among them except those things they 
had purchased at the gift store.  I gloated a little that I had such a good day - I told them all they should 
have come with me days ago.  Dinner was relatively uneventful and we followed it with an hour in the 
karaoke bar.  When I say that karaoke was the second best musical experience to be had on the boat, that 
should clarify the state of entertainment on board.  Mark kept looking down the line of us, soundlessly 
inquiring as to who among us would be performing.  I tilted my head as far as I could to one side in my best 
attempt to mimic an intrigued owl.  Oh, no, I don't sing on ships.  But that is a different story altogether.

	We all applauded as "Simon Gerard, a young man all the way from Liverpool, will now sing us 
some Beatles!"  He did a fantastic job singing "Back in the USSR" while continuing to smoke, including an 
entire verse for the illiterate (the words disappeared but the music kept on).  We were so very proud.  A 
young Portugues named Miguel performed every second song, even when that meant turning it into a duet 
or group affair, often to the displeasure of the primary singer.  Miguel fancied himself Ricky Martin with 
an enormous . sombrero.  I kid you not, the hat was two feet tall and three feet across.

	Friday was lugubrious.  It was a day at sea, but without much sunshine.  We lay out for a while, 
the wind threatening to hurl our lounge chairs across the deck with us still in them.  There was a 
mournfulness in the air as we knew it would be our last day on vacation.  We spent as much time together 
as we could, gathering in what had been Miguel's love shack the previous night, to commune and watch 
videos.  We watched a single installment of "Wheel In Space" featuring Wendy as Zoe.  We watched a 
filming-of-The-Daemons tape John had brought (it was originally on 8 mm with no sound), a copy of his 
award-winning video of photographs masterfully set to music, some of his appearances on the local Florida 
PBS station in years past during festival time, plus he read to us a minister's sermon written in Cockney 
rhyming slang.  We had to follow along with an interpretive glossary.  Carrie had never seen the finished 
episode, "Ruling from the Tomb," one which features not only the tango scene, but also a humorous scene 
in the shuttle which begins with "the yo-yo joke" and ends with Dureena grabbing Max and Trace by the 
ears and insisting she does not need a chaperone on Mars.  Dan had several items for auction, almost all of 
which were purchased en masse by Bret (I wanted the signed Andreas Katsulas photo, but hey, it was the 
day after Bret's birthday).  Stephen works for the animation company who did the sketches for the short-
lived animated series of Dr Who.  He brought along several of the studies, which we found engrossing, but 
Stephen steadfastly refused to auction them - seems work was expecting them back).  We parted to prepare 
for dinner, after which we met in the library for a last blow-out.  We all took pictures and signed group 
photos and hugged and exchanged contact information and I taught Carrie how to play Freecell.  Like all 
those gone before her, she is now hooked ("She is mine," squealed the demon Freecell.  "Bwahahahaha!").  

	The next morning came all too soon, with its "hurry up and wait."  Everyone on the ship was 
cataloged by baggage tag color.  We were a varied group, so we took turns wandering around and locating 
the others.  There were some frantic pages for Dan Harris over the intercom - we knew that was why we 
hadn't found John or Jenny.  John makes an unintentional hobby out of confounding Immigration.  He's 
lived in LA for some time now, but he's still an English citizen.  Has to carry his green card like the rest of 
us have to carry our drivers' licenses.  This was also when we discovered that everyone who had gone to 
Chichen and who had water with lunch was now experiencing Montezuma's revenge.  Jenny was the first 
to succumb, absent from dinner and the farewell party the night before.  Everyone else started getting 
symptoms in the middle of the night.  John and Jenny were ill for weeks.  

	Gill, Marcie, a very green Bret and I shared a cab and went to Gill's hotel on South Beach.  We 
left our luggage and Bret on the floor and went to find an inexpensively trendy lunch.  We had some nice 
Italian then strolled around a bit, window shopping.  Gill was staying in Florida another couple of days, but 
Marcie and Bret and I had to get to the airport.  You'll be glad to know the flights home were smooth.

	So bittersweet an ending to a fantastic voyage.  I am grateful to have been allowed to spend those 
short days in the company of some of the best people put on this earth.  Dan, Bret, Barry, Peter, Janice, 
Elsa, Stephen, Jack, Lisa, Jane, Marcie, Gillian, Wendy, Simon, John, Jenny, Carrie and Mark.  I'm proud 
to have known them all and I hope we sail again someday.