A Life on the Ocean Wave, Part 1

ONE OF THE ANNOYING FEATURES of the 1976 Gene Wilder-Richard Pryor movie “Silver Streak” was the amount of time the various characters spent explaining why they were taking a train, as if making apologies for this time-honored means of travel. Airplane travel could be luxurious through the 1950s, but fares fell and the carriers figured out how to fit more and more people into those airborne shells. At one point in the 1960s, my father, a frequent air-traveler for his business, realized that a newly hatched cabin-seating plan was little different from slave-transport ships, a comparison that has picked up some internet life.

The 1965 Broadway musical “Do I Hear a Waltz?” has a Stephen Sondheim lyric that finishes “Your chance of survival is so remote,/You're far better off to cut your throat – /But who has the time to take a boat?/What do we do? We fly!” So it was bad even then and, as you undoubtedly know, it has become far, far worse.

Especially for me, as I am large both in vertical and horizontal directions. I’m the fellow that late-arriving passengers hope like hell not to be seated beside. I’m the one getting yelled at by flight attendants because my foot has intruded into the aisle. So when the subject arose of taking a post (such as it is)-pandemic vacation, I insisted on a domestic, driveable itinerary. Until a friend decried my short-sightedness and reminded me that there’s a ship that crosses the Atlantic.

The Queen Mary 2 has been doing so since she replaced the Queen Elizabeth II in 2004, and remains the only ocean liner plying that formidable expanse. A voyage aboard the QM2 isn’t a cruise, as the Cunard Line is quick to point out: it’s a crossing. The trip we eventually booked had no other stops than Brooklyn and Southampton, England. The cost, we reasoned, was on a par with business class or better on any of the airlines if the airline happened to be in a generous mood at that moment. And we could select a pair of crossings that giving us a fortnight in the UK.

We worked through a travel agent. We booked our crossings eight months in advance, allowing us to take advantage of a Black Friday sale, my first awareness that such things exist outside of the retail-goods industry. We chose a cabin a couple of steps up from the entry-level digs, giving us a private balcony where we could laze and view the ocean. All in all, it promised seven days of luxury each way, with a frightening amount of food on offer. My only concern was that I’d be sharing this space – admittedly gigantic – with some 2,600 other people. And I’m a very committed curmudgeon.

Let’s get on board and discover what happened. We begin in Brooklyn, leaving the pier at about 5 PM Friday, July 21, 2023. If you’re not actually looking out to sea as the ship departs, the only giveaway is a very slight motion under your feet – and if you’re already sipping some cocktails, you’d be forgiven for blaming it on the booze. But that view of the sea is easy to find: From your stateroom balcony, from one of the lounges or dining rooms, on the periphery of Deck 7, where you can circumnavigate the ship outdoors on foot, taking care not to get run over by the puffing, high-stepping exercise freaks.

Homebody that I am, my first concern is the stateroom my wife and I will share for the next six nights. While it isn’t the kind of palatial suite in which you’d find Carole Lombard swanning around in one of her 1930s romantic comedies, it was more than we expected, packing in a king-sized bed, foldout couch, small coffee table, desk and chair, bathroom, and plenty of closet space. And, of course, the balcony, with its own table and lounge chairs.

We were required to assemble for Emergency Procedure instructions, which were offered in the assembly area to which you (and a few hundred others) are assigned – the place to where you’ll rush should an alarm sound. We got a preview of that phenomenon at this initial event, since nobody knew where to go and, having eventually gotten there, where to actually assemble. I was comforted to note that there was plenty of room for this panicky aimlessness.

That we eventually would fall into a shipboard routine seemed far-fetched at that moment. And suppertime brought a little more confusion. Because my walking ability is uncertain, I brought a transport chair. Although it’s an awkward thing to carry, it was also a strategic instrument to get me preferential treatment when possible. It certainly got us on the ship quickly, and reminded me that not all the more able people you pass will look kindly upon you and your infirmity. We had reserved a table in the large dining room, the Britannia Restaurant. Ours would be wheelchair-accessible. This gave me the pleasant picture of a table for two, off to one side, with room for that chair.

It was a table for two, all right, but reached only after navigating half of the massive dining room. And it was accessible only in the sense that you could be wheeled to it, then have your chair whisked away. Or, at least, have my chair whisked away, as I was obviously more ambulatory than those who spent all waking hours in such a vehicle. And we were flanked by another two-top, this one against the window, and a four-top. Meaning that inter-table conversation would be mandatory. Especially when it’s my wife who’s leading the way.