The lifeboat drill
I am a Baby Boomer. That means I am among the oldest living bloggers. I do not hang with the Disney Cruise crowd. I am far more interested in what cruising offers to the generation that might still be able to count on social security.
I love cruise ships. I consider them the bling of the sea. While I shudder at the thought of scaling the rock wall, I revel in a good Mango Tango or a particularly obliging Pool Boy.
But there is one part of the cruise experience that I loath. It’s the lifeboat drill. This is a particularly useless waste of time that happens before your ship leaves its embarkation port. You are already at the bottom of your resources, having battled with the airline that lost your luggage, stood on the dock for two hours, been assigned to the wrong dinner seating, and found that your shoes no longer fit very well once the heat exceeds 102 degrees F.
Sure, it’s the law. And the captain swears that, during an emergency, the crew will be there to save your ass vs their own. We are to believe that the rest of the passengers will maintain an orderly presence during a fire at sea or an ice berg collision or a nasty bout with the cracken. Uh-huh. We’ve just seen how they behaved when someone took cuts in line on the dock.
The drill begins almost before you have found your way around the 179 sq. feet of your state room, much less located your muster station. You must arrive for the drill wearing your life vest. If you think you can hide in your shower, closet or balcony, give it up. That nice looking steward who greeted you as though you were a long lost friend will seek you out and turn you in. You will be keel hauled.
If you are a lady of, say, sturdy proportions, your vest will stick virtually straight out over your chest, leaving no room for your extra chin. And since vests don’t bend easily, belting it down is going to cause a certain discomfort to your breasts. But not quite so much as a mammogram.
You now amble down to the muster deck; you will find it a novel experience to be unable to see your feet. If you are lucky and your ship has a cavalier captain, you may only have to go sit in the casino and watch a demonstration on how to don the life vest that you have already donned. If the captain is more serious about the rules, you will be shepherded out onto the deck, jammed against all those strangers, and allowed to stare at the itty-bitty boat that is supposed to save your soul. Again I say, uh-huh.
When the drill is over, you are asked to leave, not letting anyone trip over the straps of your vest. Someone could trip over them because everyone is ripping them off as though they were infested with lice.
Now you get to join the other 2000 people on the elevators or stairs as you climb back to your room. But don’t think you’ll get to stay there for long. Dinner is served.
