Guest Robert Weir — who is a writer, author, editor and speaker — took a Royal Clipper cruise in April and blogged about it. Here is more from his blog. Enjoy!

Mid-Atlantic Neptune ceremony — Wednesday, April 14, 2010, mid-afternoon

Robert receives a bath of egg, pasta, and flour for his crime of crossing the mid-Atlantic. Photo credit: Alan Thagaard

I and about 15 others are gathered on the aft deck, dressed in our swimsuits and tied with a faux knot around our wrists. We are led and prodded amidships by the Sports Team: Mariano, who has painted his face green and is dressed in robes with jangling wads of plastic flotsam tied around his waist; Dave, who is dressed in a black cape, black hat, and fake black beard; Marcus, whose bare face, torso, and legs are striped with red and who carries a crimson trident in his hands; and a young woman with cardboard wings that, due to the breeze, don’t want to remain affixed to her shoulders.

The ship is at 24.07.1 N and 49.32.2 W, approximately above the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, and turned so that a good wind strikes the sails broadsides. The sails are unfurled, and “1492: Conquest of Paradise,” the ship’s theme song, plays over loud speakers.

Our crime is crossing the ocean for the first time. Our punishment is to be determined by Neptune, fabled god of the sea, who sits on the starboard side, dressed in white robe and adorned with a white flowing beard and white hat. His elevated throne is, normally, a launching platform for a lifeboat. But on this day, it is a dais of justice.

Vlad, the captain is nearby, with microphone in hand, to call forth the names of us poor mortals who are now draped by and trapped in a net.

Ximena, the cruise director, calls the first name. Bill emerges from under the net and is prodded forward to meet his demise.

Neptune announces that his crime will be forgiven if he pays proper homage to the sea: to kiss the fish that Ximena holds before him, to allow her to pour champagne atop his head, and to stand quietly as the other captors cover him with a cracked egg, hollandaise-coated pasta, and flour. Naturally, Bill obeys. Then, he is commanded to jump into a pool of water to rinse the grime from his body and the crime from his soul.

One by one, the captain calls each of our names. Each makes the journey before Neptune and faces Ximena and the fish. We stand before Mariano, Dave, and Marcus with their large bowls of eggs, pasta, and flour. Then, we plunge into the saltwater pool.

We are laughing, of course, as are many passengers who have faced similar judgment on a previous crossing.

Royal Clipper: Thai massage — Wednesday, April 14, 2010, 17:00
“Rearranging the landscape,” is a term that a sports therapy masseuse used to describe treatment to increase range of motion and strength when I was recovering from a torn medial meniscus a decade ago. The term comes to mind now as Kird, whose full name is Waranyu Ratpakdee, tugs and contorts my legs and arms into positions that were once natural, when I was a child, but have become limited with years of sitting at a computer desk.

He pokes and prods with his fingers, thumbs, heel of hands, knees, and feet on all parts of my body. Unlike a Swedish massage where I would lie passively under the smooth, soothing strokes of the masseuse, I am rolled and raised—upside down and right side up—like a ship in a storm. Resistance seems natural but is, in reality, futile if not detrimental.

Why am I doing this? Well, before leaving home, Karen, a friend who is a massage therapist, suggested that I get a massage in every country I visit then write an article about that for a massage magazine. Great idea. Relaxation written off as a business expense.

On Friday, the day I departed Barbados, I received a typical Swedish massage in Holetown. Stepping aboard Royal Clipper, I promised myself a massage at the mid-point of the Atlantic. The on-ship spa offered the Thai variety, a new experience for me, and I booked one. It seemed like a great follow-up to the Neptune mid-Atlantic ceremony. Right now, with only my head and shoulders touching the mat as Kird raises my feet high over his head, I am not so sure. Yet, I endure.

After the massage, I lie on the mat while Kird leaves the room. He is grinning, and the word “masochist” comes to mind. But when I stand up, I see that I am standing taller. I feel lighter, rejuvenated. This is good.