Robert lifts his empty glass to show he managed to drink an inch of water with a holey straw during Pirate Night celebrations.

Those who have made the crossing before came prepared with pirate hats, striped shirts, tattered leggings, and scarves. One woman has a fake parrot perched atop a finger of her right hand. I happened to have a gold bandana. Pablo, my cabin steward, has loaned me a foam saber with an orange-and-green hilt.

In the open-air Tropical Bar, Ximena calls for five contestants to play pirate games. Three jump to join in. No one else, not even those dressed for the occasion, move. Ximena calls my name, and I step forward. Then, another man rounds out the five.

The first game is a test of strength: to hold a diving belt with 5 kilograms of weights at arm’s length. The first to falter is out. Ximena counts to three in English, and we raise our arms. The contestant next to me, Uschi, is a woman at least two decades younger than I and strong. Her belt has less weight than that of the rest of us, all men. I look to the right and the left; these guys, Paul, Ronald, and another man I didn’t get to know, are all bigger than I, their biceps larger by quite a bit. I will have to rely on breathing and willpower if I am to prevail. Right. Tell that to my quivering arm. But, just as I think I can’t hold out a moment longer, Paul drops his arm; he is out. My arm drops immediately afterward, but I am still in the game.

The second contest requires a blindfold, and there is talk of walking the plank. Instead, each of us is handed a string to which a pencil is attached at the opposite end. A narrow-neck wine bottle is stood upright near our feet. Art, a man from the audience who I had not yet met, comes forward to be my partner. My role is to follow his instructions as he tells me to raise the string, move it right or left or forward or back, then lower it. The deck sways beneath our feet. I can feel wind blowing across the deck. This is not skill but pure luck. When my pencil drops into the wine bottle, I can’t feel it enter. But Art tells me to let go of the string, and I do. I listen, blindfolded. Two others are still striving to accomplish the feat. I am the second to have done it. I have survived to play another round.

The third contest is a race from a chair on one side of the deck, around a chair on the other side of the deck, back to the first chair—with an inflated balloon between our knees. If we drop the balloon or touch it after the race begins, we have to return to the starting chair and begin again. Ximena counts to three in Spanish, and we begin. I start by hopping but don’t like the jarring effect, so I waddle forward. The other two contestants, Uschi and Ronald are ahead of me. But Uschi drops her balloon. Then does Ronald. I am in the lead and round the chair on the other side of the deck as they go back to start over. The balloon feels comfortable between my legs. My confidence grows. I pick up speed, rhythm, waddle. I cruise into the finish line, the only contestant to not retreat and begin again. After dropping his balloon three times, Ronald comes in second. Uschi is eliminated.

David, a member of the ship’s Sports Team, pours about one inch of water into a pair of short cocktail glasses, making sure that each has the same amount. He sets a straw in each glass. Ximena explains that the winner of this contest will be the person who can drink the water in the glass, through the straw, first. Ronald and I turn toward each other. This looks too easy. David hands us the glasses. “You can’t touch the straw,” Ximena instructs. The wind is blowing the straw around in the glass; the first challenge will be to secure it between my lips. Ximena counts to three in German. I suck on the straw; practically no water reaches the top. “The straws have little holes,” Ximena tells the audience, now laughing. “It is a matter of who has the best lungs,” she says in her Mexican accent. With that, I realize that I am bent over the glass, so I stand taller, taking a deeper breath and bringing a greater volume of water to my mouth. I draw again and again and again. The level in the glass is going down—slowly. I draw again and again and again. The last few drops remain. I know that Ronald is beside me, but I think not of him and only of the force of my inhalation. The last of the water disappears from my glass; it is in my mouth. I swallow. I raise my arm high in front of me and upturn the glass. Not a drop falls out. The crowd applauds. My victory is secure.

Ximena tells me that my prize is either the drink of the day from the Tropical Bar or a Royal Clipper keychain. I choose the keychain, a memento of this victory at sea.

In 2007, my wife and I had sailed on the Star Clipper and it was an unforgettable experience! What a magic vessel! Our passions were fulfilled … beautiful ship, sailing, sea, scenery and idyllic places visited and refined luxury.

We promised to go again on a cruise on the Royal Clipper … and we did this year! Love at first sight! We found again this very special and friendly atmosphere that we enjoyed on the Star Clipper. The navigation under sail was magic, for each arrival and departure in port of call; everyone there (including those on larger floating hotels called ships) was impressed by such beauty and elegance.

My wife is a photographer and she was able, during this cruise, to photograph this magnificent ship. We hope very soon to cruise and sail on one of three ships … or with a little luck on the new ship which we hope will soon be under construction!

A special thanks to Captain Sergey who shared with us his passion and of course, all the crew for his kindness and professionalism.

Kind regards,
Didier Jobé (Switzerland)

Check out more photos from their cruise here:
http://www.instant-maj.com/instant-maj_Royal_Clipper_menu.html

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.

Crew use electric winches to pull halyards and raise two of Royal Clipper's four jibs.

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.

Hello everybody!

Just came home from my first Star Clipper cruise ever, and I am still flying high! How did you manage to weave this extraordinary experience for me? Leger luxury, coziness, excitement, seamanship, and all of this combined with obviously attracting a special kind of human being (both as passenger and crew member) who is happy to share, to be open, to celebrate life – what a trip I had. I also like to thank you on behalf of my mother. It was her idea to go on this trip over her 80th birthday with me, and I know that she is as happy as I am.

Special regards to Ximena Pipp, our Cruise Director, with her great spirit, her wits and her heart of a tender lioness.

See you!
Heidi Behrens

http://www.starclippers.com/index.php

Star Clipper

Ingredients:
Myers Rum — 2 cl
Apricot Brandy — 1 cl
Creme de Banana — 1 cl
Pineapple Juice — 8 cl

Glass:
Hurricane glass

Garnish:
Pineapple with a cherry and umbrella.

Blend all ingredients with ice cubes and then pour into a glass. Enjoy!