The first sign it was going to be a weird trip was the gun.
Specifically, the gun our Uber driver had in the center console of his car. Dan and I had been in Florida about a half hour. The driver wanted to show us he was prepared for whatever Fort Lauderdale threw our way. The vibe was less “good guy with a gun” and more “vigilante with a loose weapon.” For example, he said, if someone tried to car jack us he’d go out shooting.
I was there to cover a 2-night Margaritaville cruise departing from the port of West Palm Beach, and Dan was along for the ride. He doesn’t usually get to come on my work trips, but the cruise wouldn’t let me book a solo passage, so Dan got to join.
It was a win-win. Dan’s the best travel companion, plus his not-a-travel-writer/normal-person perspective is helpful to my reporting. (Like his illuminating description of a meal we had as “watered down Stouffer’s.”)
Here’s how the story turned out. And here’s what didn’t make the cut:
Some cathartic crying on an AstroTurf deck
As I’ve mentioned before, I cry on most reporting trips, usually out of some combination of self-doubt, stress, or bad sleep. Those weren’t the culprits this time.
It was “Moves like Jagger.” At least that’s what was playing when the crying happened.
On our first night aboard the Margaritaville at Sea Paradise, Dan and I were standing on an AstroTurf deck taking in the scene. People below danced in front of a live band playing Top 40 covers. Some passengers dangled their feet in the tiny pool, others stood along the ship’s railing watching the Florida coast shrink in the sunset.
Cue the tears. Part of it was the wholesome sweetness of seeing people having fun. Part of it was the realization that we were on a not-very-good ship.
Boarding had felt like waiting in line at SeaWorld on a spring break weekend. The ship was old — not in a charming vintage way, just sort of dingy. Its cafeteria buffet where most of our meals were served smelled deeply off-putting, like some hybrid of musky funk and cleaning chemicals; I insisted we eat outside as often as possible. Even the drinks were mid.
So the cry was a cathartic “what is even going on right now” and “I surrender to this situation” kind of thing. Dan was confused.
The Hot Tub Compromise
The challenge of these kinds of assignments is trying to get a fly-on-the-wall perspective without disturbing the natural scene while also being a reporter. The last thing I want is people (staff or guests) acting differently because there’s a journalist on the loose. Going full anthropologist mode with my camera and notepad can be a giveaway.
For this cruise, I spent the first day and night mostly observing. I saved approaching people for interviews for night and morning two, that way people would’ve had time to soak in the experience. And they wouldn’t spend most of the sailing wondering if a reporter was stalking them.
I interviewed some folks around dinner time, and some who were leaving the painful comedy show. (It was so unfunny that Dan left the theater to read a book in the hallway.) But I really wanted to interview people in the hot tub. Going alone seemed too creepy.
“I do not want to go in the hot tub,” Dan protested.
Fair. The hot tub (or tubs, there were two) situation was bleak because:
1. They were only big enough for four people.
2. There were already couples in each. a
3. It was kind of raining.
I pressed Dan; “we love hot tubs!” He compromised. Full of sad food from our sad cruise dinner, we changed into our swimsuits (and robes from our room! A bright spot!) and hit the tub deck.
The water was lukewarm at best. Worse, the couple got out as we approached. Now we had no one to talk to for my story, and we were kind of cold in a tepid bacteria cauldron.
A silver lining scooter
If you’re thinking, “wow what a shitty time!” you’d be wrong. We had so much fun — even with the bad food and the Maroon 5 breakdown — particularly when the ship docked in Grand Bahama and we got to explore the island.
The night before, we’d looked up local scooter rentals and called up a place on Google Maps with good reviews called Bulls Eye Car Rental. The owner Raymond was a pro; he told us it’d be $50 to get a moped for the day, and he’d pick us up at 9 a.m. sharp. All we had to do was get off the ship, turn right at the coconut stand and we’d find him. Easy.
It went according to plan, and within a half hour we were scooting in the sunshine.
Great: feeling the wind in our hair; eating tasty banana bread we bought in the parking lot of the beach slash caves slash mangrove place Raymond told us to visit.
Less great: the caves were cool but underwhelming compared to other caves; the beach a wind vortex; the sea was a choppy death trap.
No problem. We scooted on to another beach where Raymond said we’d find cheap and delicious lobster at Bernie’s Tiki Hut. The name was appropriate; it’s just a wooden hut on the beach where you can get tropical drinks and seafood.
Raymond was not exaggerating. For $35, we had a fresh-caught, girthy lobster fried à la minute with plantains and some salad, along with two Bahama Mama cocktails made by Bernie herself (her husband Antuan did the frying).
We ate it on the beach with our hands, mostly because the plastic fork snapped in half trying to rip into the meat but also because we were starving and it was glorious.
Then we swam in the ocean despite the chop.
Raymond’s second food tip was to hit Terry’s Conch Salad Stand. It was unreal. Terry made us a salad himself, explaining the whole process along the way. I had no idea what was in those conch shells before we went.
Did I feel bad seeing the little guy wrestled out of his home and chopped to pieces? Yes. Was I grateful to try the local specialty nonetheless? Also yes, for I am a monster.
So I will think of our cruise trip fondly.
To be clear: that does not mean I think anyone should spend their own money to take the cruise.
But I do think you can find your Raymonds and your Bernies and Terrys anywhere you travel if you look hard enough, and turn a Margaritaville at Sea into an afternoon of magic.
I genuinely enjoyed following the Margaritaville adventures on your Instagram!
When I die bury me inside the Margaritaville cruise