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Outside Magazine October 2004

Outside's Guilty Pleasures
Fine Liner
A roughing-it guy gets fancy aboard the Queen Mary 2

By Randy Wayne White

IF THE PROSPECT OF BOOKING a cruise ship evokes in you an edgy, nonspecific queasiness, then the Queen Mary 2 is an ideal choice, because she is not a cruise ship. She's an ocean liner, as aficionados will explain to you once, then correct you over and over with steely impatience should the slander continue.

Ocean liners are elegant transports for elegant people. Cruise ships are floating budgetels for sunburned party dudes who pass out in the hot tub. Ocean liners are built stronger, faster, sleeker, and more stable, and they cost about twice as much per square foot as a cruise ship. Christened by Cunard in 2004, the QM2 cost a whopping $800 million.

I knew none of this before I boarded near Fort Lauderdale. I wish I had, because my dread about being trapped with cruise-ship bozos would have been replaced by a more accurate dread of being trapped with ocean-liner snobs. But the truth is, neither of these demographics fits my travel philosophy, which is about embracing back-of-beyond destinations, unstable governments, and the sort of uncertain, primitive conditions that I truly love.

Or thought I loved. I'm not so certain anymore. Eleven days aboard the QM2 severely challenges one's roustabout sensibilities and causes even veteran trekkers to feel vaporous, even traitorous.

I'd been invited to lecture on fiction writing as part of the ship's Oxford Discovery Program, described in brochures as an "ambitious series of educational presentations by some of the world's best-known scholars." (Shows how much they know.) The QM2 had been in service for only a few months when she arrived in Lauderdale, and there were procedural gaffes typical of all shakedown cruises. The boarding terminal was overcrowded, and pissed-off, affluent passengers vented by stomping on the toes of us lower-deck types who were wearing Birkenstocks. Because I was, technically, an employee, the staff couldn't find my name on the passenger manifest. That night, for the same reason, the French maître d' refused to assign me a table in the Britannia Restaurant, where 1,300 or so irritable paying patrons had descended.

But it's impossible to stay crabby aboard the QM2. The ship itself is an architectural marvel, a floating work of art. The QM2 is the largest passenger ship in history—169 feet longer than and twice as heavy as its sister ship, the Queen Elizabeth 2. There's a shopping promenade on board, a casino, more than a dozen restaurants, a superb spa, pubs and bars, exercise facilities, and just about anything else you'd expect to find in Palm Beach or Paris.

The first couple of days, I explored the behemoth, got lost, then explored some more. By the third day I'd not only adjusted to life on a liner, but I was coming to enjoy it, God help me. Afternoon tea became an unexpected pleasure once I found out you didn't have to drink tea to participate; every day, the staff served tiny sandwiches filled with interesting stuff like cucumbers, and it was relaxing to sit outside on a deck chair, plate on one knee, bloody mary on the other, and engage strangers in conversation. The couple of times I dumped my plate or spilled my drink, they pretended not to notice. Now, that's class.

A watershed moment came during one of several private cocktail parties I was invited to. It was held in an upper-deck lounge, a room of leather, varnish, and brass, walled with hurricane glass so that the moon outside, blue with sea haze, seemed to match our speed and course. I was wearing a rental tux: a slightly baggy white jacket, red bow tie, pressed black slacks. I'd never worn a tux before, and whenever I saw my reflection in a mirror, it took a second or two before I realized that it was me, and not some ex–pro wrestler on his way to a promoter's wedding or a wake.

All good trips acquire their own rhythm, and I was soon enamored of my routine. Each morning, my cabin steward would tap politely and I'd open the door to find breakfast served on fine china. There was an abundance of daily recreational activities: yoga, watercolors, golf, quoits (whatever that is), dance lessons, blackjack, shuffleboard, trivia contests, and bingo. I took salsa lessons—fun. I attended a wine tasting—lots of fun. I dedicated my mornings to working on my laptop and my afternoons to exercise, counterbalancing whatever overindulgence I had planned for after sunset. Deck 7 is encircled by a teak outboard promenade, and it's a good place to jog. Six laps is just over two miles.

After dark on the QM2, the ship is devoted to exactly what she represents: the tasteful opulence of a long-gone era. Everyone I met looked forward to nights at sea. I did, too—a shocker, because I've spent a lifetime dodging pomp and dressing any damn way I please (usually shabbily). But the QM2 really does have a grace about her that elevates; plus, some of the theme nights were just too good to miss. My favorite was Pirates Night, complete with ship-provided buccaneer garb for any guest who wanted to attend. I chose to watch. It was sufficiently bizarre to see men and women in their late sixties and seventies tottering around the decks wearing eye patches, death's-head do-rags, and plastic hooks while muttering, "Avast, matey!"

Of course, I had a costume fixation of my own: Late in the voyage, I decided to plunk down $600 and buy my own personally tailored tuxedo. The ship's seamstress did the fitting, and the garment came out beautifully. The next night, standing among champagne fountains, I felt right at home—almost Bogart-like, because I'd been advised to select a white jacket, very much like the one in Casablanca.

"Tropical dress," I was told.

Who am I to argue with the tailor of the Queen Mary 2?

Next Page: The joys of jet-skiing like a slob

RANDY WAYNE WHITE is an Outside contributing editor.

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