Guest Robert Weir — who is a writer, author, editor and speaker — took a Royal Clipper cruise in April and blogged about it. We’ll be posting his blog in installments so you can read about his journey. Enjoy!

Royal Clipper embarkation — Saturday, April 10, 2010, 4:30 to 10:00pm
The sun is shining when I walk a mile from the bus stop to the shipping terminal. Three others walk with me, stopping once in a while to take photographs of the blue sea and colorful flowers and trees. A guard at the entry checks my passport while the others show only their vessels’ reboarding pass.

A mist is falling as I request permission to board Royal Clipper. After check-in in the main lounge, a steward shows me to my cabin. My first question is in regard to Internet service, and I learn that, in contrast to previous promises, it is not working aboard the ship. So, I quickly stow my gear, grab my laptop, and return to the terminal where I had seen a Wi-Fi sign. The mist has added heft and become rain.

Mariano, the ship’s marine biologist and lecturer, greets me by name even though we had met only once briefly. He directs me to a self-help kiosk where I can buy a Wi-Fi card for $5.00 Barbadian, and I am glad that I still have a bill of that denomination left in my wallet. For this amount, I can connect to the Internet via my computer for one hour or via a seaport computer for 30 minutes. I choose mine, wanting to attach a document, a manuscript that I had been editing, to one email to a client. But my computer can’t locate the signal.

Mariano then directs me to the seaport computer. Fortunately, I had made a list of all who I wanted or needed to contact—friends and clients—before departing. However, rather than being able to do so comfortably from my cabin over the next several hours, my location and time was limited to the here and now—fast. I made a note of the time on the Windows operating system screen and quickly attended to my task. After 28 minutes, I had sent all that I wanted to send, and at 30 minutes, promptly, the computer screen went black. Time ashore is up. Time to go aboard.

By now, the rain has gained even more heft and transformed into a downpour. I bundle my laptop under my anorak and start toward the ship. Fortunately, in the Caribbean, heavy drops of rain do not necessarily equate to a drop in temperature. So, even though soaked, I am warm.

Supper is served at 7:00, and I dine with Jim and Jennie from the UK, Ronald and Marianne from Switzerland, and Bill from Canada. The conversation is international, political, and familial.

At 10:00, passengers gather around the bridge and crew work the decks. Most are dressed in raingear as mist continues to descend. “1492: Conquest of Paradise,” the theme written by Vangelis for a movie by the same name about Christopher Columbus, plays over loud speakers. Bow thrusters push us away from the dock, and a tugboat helps turn the bow toward the harbor entrance.

The winds are favorable, so the crew hoists the sails. Hearts and spirits rise in unison — at least mine are. We are under way with the dark Atlantic ahead and diminishing Barbadian city lights fading off the stern.

We run northwest, parallel to the island coast until we are well clear of the northern end — and probably unseen coral reefs or shoals. Then, we turn northeast, into the wind, and the crew furls the sails. A few remaining passengers remain topsides to watch while the majority descend to the piano bar for entertainment by Lazlo, the ship’s musician.

Later that night, visiting the bridge, I learn, with some disappointment, that we will be motoring for the next several days until we reach the 30th Parallel where trade winds are expected to be more favorable for actual sailing. So, for the next several days, I experience motor cruising aboard a five-masted tall ship. Oh, well. At least we are at sea.

Royal Clipper: My first talk at sea.

I have a microphone in hand and a newly developed PowerPoint presentation at my fingertips and am giving a presentation to about 24 fellow passengers. The topic is “Stories: We All Have One. Here’s Mine. What’s Yours?”

This came about because of an announcement on the daily printed schedule two days ago in which Ximena, the cruise director, extended an invitation for passengers to tell stories, show slides, or otherwise entertain others.

I am reading a poem about my dad and a story about my mom from Cobble Creek, telling about John McConnell’s vision of peace, justice, care of Earth, and describing my brain tumor experience. The audience is attentive; some look enthralled.

I make the offer to sit and talk with anyone who wants to tell me their story or wants free coaching on how to write their story.

Afterward, I receive compliments and further conversation. Two couples who were not in attendance say, “Oh, are you the writer? I wanted to hear you talk but didn’t make it there.” And so I review highlights with them.

One man confides an emotional event of the previous day, a situation involving his deceased wife of 47 years. He says, “I hadn’t planned on telling anyone but when I heard you speak, I decided I wanted to tell you.” I listened and thanked him.

Storytelling. It’s cathartic, essential, primal.

I am reminded of a conversation over dinner the night before. I said to the people around the table: “If we had a societal meltdown due to man-made or natural disaster that wiped out our communications systems, our highways, our physical and technical infrastructure, who would we turn to first?” Answer: Our local constabulary, medical triage personnel, ministers, mechanics; these are key people who would help us hold ourselves, our emotions, and our gadgets together. We would turn to our local farmers and growers for sustenance. And we would rely on teaches, storytellers, artists, and poets to keep our folklore alive. In other words, we would turn to those who, according to current standards of financial compensation, we value the least — and yet are so vital to the full, true human experience.

Stay tuned for more posts about Robert’s Royal Clipper journey.