Ann Ipock
            Humorist, author, speaker

Georgetown Times

Sick at sea: the jolt that made me bolt

By Ann Ipock                                                               October 11, 2006

Not long ago I wrote about an upcoming planned vacation for hubby Russell, daughter Katie and myself: a cruise to the Western Caribbean. Seven glorious days of sun, sand and surf; gourmet dining; Broadway-like shows; and visiting Belize, Cozumel and Costa Maya (new ports for us) plus Nassau.
Now, folks keep kept asking me when I’m going to write about the trip. (Jeanne at Island Cleaners, are you reading this?) For a long time, I couldn’t even talk about it, much less write about it.
Heck, in many ways this vacation seemed more like a jail sentence. But I’ve decided to just get over it. I’m even looking on the bright side now: the way I figure, writing this column will pay for the doctor bill I incurred while on the ship. And, yes, contrary to popular belief, they actually charge you (insurance not accepted), adding insult to injury, if you’re sick enough to see the doc. And I was.

Proving once again the theory that I’m a magnet for the unusual, 24 hours after we boarded the Carnival Glory, I became sick. And though I’m not sure, I believe I was the only one. Why? Because each time I left my room, I saw each and every one of the 3,000 guests, in my face. They were sprawled out in beach chairs, jammed into the casinos, dining at several locations, and crowded into the gift shop (buying silver by the inch — puhleeze!).
If you weren’t already sick, you nearly died of claustrophobia and asphyxiation during the mandatory Coast Guard drill. It was like a steam room without the room.
Huddled on the deck were folks of every size, shape and attitude — elbow-to-elbow, wearing stuffy orange life vests. Sweaty cruisers (some already feeling no pain from the rum punch) stood shoulder to shoulder, shoving each other. Kids screamed in your good ear.
The worst part, though, was that man — that big old man, about 6’6 ”— who stepped on the toe of my stress-fractured foot. However, no one heard me scream over the megaphone-blasting employee, shouting instructions.

Let me just say we were not off to a good start. Russell said, “Remind me why we came on this cruise?”
After a fairly uneventful evening, we stopped at the ice cream bar and coffee stand. I should’ve known not to drink the lukewarm coffee. I’m not sure how long it had been sitting there, but it was strong enough to walk. Oblivious, we sat outside under the stars, saying ‘nothing could be finer, though we’re not in Carolina.’ If we’d only known.
I awoke the next morning with what felt like a hundred knives stabbing my stomach. I dashed to the bathroom, then eventually lay back down to rest. Later, I wandered out for a light breakfast and felt much-improved until mid-afternoon.

After another “jolt” which made me “bolt,” I visited the infirmary. They handed me a clipboard full of questions: “What did you eat during the last 48 hours? Where did you eat before you boarded the ship? What did you eat on the ship? When? Why? Where?” Who cares? I thought.
Katie helped me reconstruct the scene of the crime, so to speak. Believe it or not, I forgot to mention the stale, cold coffee. The nurse gave me some Lomotil and sent me on my unmerry way, suggesting I eat only crackers and jello. But when I called room service they told me, “We have no quackers. We have no jelly.”

The next day we took a cab to Cozumel and shopped briefly, but left within an hour. My condition was still iffy and Russell and Katie weren’t into shopping anyway. When we stopped at Belize, we decided not to get off the ship. Surrounded by water, a tender was the only mode of transportation. It just seemed too much trouble. I felt a little better, but stayed in my room more than usual.
Docking at Costa Maya later, I felt better, so set out to find Kelly (our other daughter) a Mexican nativity set like the one I own. I bought that and other souvenirs, and was about ready to leave. Suddenly, another jolt made me bolt and I ran to the nearest bathroom. While sitting on the throne, I noticed a sign that read, “We have an archaic system in Costa Maya. Do not flush paper down the toilet.” I winced. “What? Certainly they don’t mean — they couldn’t — oh no!” I flushed and ran! When we returned to the ship, Katie said, “Mom, I’m so sorry but I left Kelly’s gift on a bench at the shopping center.” So, she and Russell left to go back and find it. After some discussion with the clerk, who could not speak English and merely pointed to a new set three times, Russell gave in and purchased a new one.

Meantime, in my room, I struggled into my jammies, slumped under the covers and moaned. Feeling worse and becoming concerned, I visited the infirmary again. After waiting 20 minutes, they confessed they’d lost my paperwork. Once more, I scribbled out answers that I knew nothing of. Next, the doctor saw me, placed me on an antibiotic and quarantined me for 24 hours to my cabin. I was so sick I didn’t even mind.
Russell and Katie were worried and helped me all they could. But I insisted they go out and have fun; therefore, they went to dinner and a show. I settled for jello and dry toast, read Anne Tyler’s “Digging to America,” and watched a movie. Late that night, room service called saying, “Has anyone been by to pick up your tray?” I said no and offered to place it outside my door. “No!” he said. “Do not leave your room. We’ll be by to get it shortly.”

I half expected to see a sterile, spacesuit-clad CDC team. Instead, a knock at the door revealed only a uniformed steward, not even wearing gloves.
The final day before debarkation I was completely well. Even though I’d visited Nassau before, I didn’t care. I was just glad to be alive. And live it up I did, if only for seven hours.

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