Our goal for the day? Get our ship-sore asses up before nine and make it to breakfast in the dining room. Goal achieved. We waddle down to the dining room and land a table with fellow Phoenix Suns fans. I tell ya, these waiters know exactly who their dealing with and try to match folks up through common interests. It couldn't have worked out better.
The one odd ball couple happened to be the more engaging duo. When a school of dolphins captured our attention - for me, I just wondered if Captain Ahab was launching his fishing pole out there to snag dinner - this couple hung back.
"When you pet whales, those kinds of things (the dolphins) aren't as exciting to see," said the husband (I'm horrible at names, so we'll just call him Herb. I've always liked that name).
"We take an annual trip to La Paz, camp on the beach and sail with the whales," said the wife, lets call her Mary Jane.
Throughout breakfast, Wife and I are quizzing these two hostages who describe this camp near La Paz as a bare bones excursion. The couple said the rangers take you out in panga boats right up to Moby Dick and it's brothers and sisters, close enought to pet and look down their blow holes. Just what I want to see - the inner workings of a blow hole. Maybe it's the seven days as a sea hostage, or the endless amount of food served, or the easy access to booze, but Wife and I are enthralled at the idea. Touching whales? How amazing would that be?
For seven days, Chris and I had talked, no boasted, about kicking the rock climbing wall's ass. They stuff this attraction at the back of the ship, and you have to be Johnny-on-the-spot to nab a place in the session. We learned that little fact the hard way.
"Oh yeah, honey, come up in 20 minutes, we'll be on the wall."
Well, within five minutes the session was filled and we were left fondling our junk, waiting an hour for the next run. OK, no worries, we got this program figured out. We snag our books and steal a couple of lounge chairs near the wall, but out of sight of the line. The clock ticks near two and we get up with five minutes to spare. And damnit, there's already a line of climbing dorks.
Fine! We decide to camp our food-heavy asses in front of the wall and wait until other folks head over to sign up for the 3 p.m. runs. It takes three hours, but we're finally in.
I think the instructors, guides, ship lackies who can't serve food, whatever you want to call the dudes who run this dog and pony show called a rock wall, thought they were leading an expedition up El Capitan in Yosemite with all the equipment they loaded us down with: Nut sack holder, helmet in case falling rocks off the rock wall hit our melons, and enough caribeaners to connect to rope that would reach the top of Everest.
The wall was pock-marked with colored hand holds. The idea is that you use one color to reach the bell at the top, that's how real rock climbers measure their ability. To hell with that, I say, I just want to hit all three bells and look at the wake we're leaving in the Pacific while up there, some 200-feet above the water.
There are three seperate ropes, and I hit all them. I fell off once, and that was due to a loose hold, so I don't count it, therefore I didn't fall at all and rang the shit out of those bells. Ding-friggin'-ding man, I conquered that wall. Bring on Suicide Rock in Idyllwild. I'll piss on it's gravely base. It ain't got nothing on this experienced rock climber. No matter that after each run my arms felt like water-logged sand bags. That's what beer and hot dogs are for, which, coincidentally enough, the ship could provide. Nothing climbing fake rocks to work up a good, thirsty hunger.
Hold on to your knickers, dinner came that night and I had just ONE entree. I'm not sure if Royal Caribbean wore me down or if there just wasn't enough choices on the menu that reeled in my tummy. I couldn't pass up two appetizers, though, and have my buddy Mustafa bring out a shrimp cocktail and a salmon blossom. I can't pass up shrimp or salmon. Both could come drenched in a poop-flavored sauce and I still chow down like a hungry, sea-faring carnivore.
With dinner done, I had to make a stop at the Schooner bar to say good bye to our favorite bartenders. They hook us up with some free cokes, and then twist my arm and add some Jack to the coke. Sad to say, that was my last drink on the ship. No trumpets played taps. There was not a 21-shot salute. However, the piano dude at the bar played a Jimmy Buffet song, which doesn't count for anything since that's all the schmuck played during the trip. By the end of the cruise, I hoped that a-hole Buffet would get wasted enough in Margaritaville to shut the hell up about it.
I'd be remiss if I didn't talk more about the service, specifically, the folks who work so hard to make our trip so enjoyable. If there was something I regretted on this trip, it was that I didn't chat more with the staff to learn about them.
Robert from Slovakia, our assistant waiter, enjoys boxing as a hobby. He'd be an ideal middle weight, and those Slovaks are a tough bunch. He told us one story about a guy in his town who makes his own wine.
"We'd stop by and ask if he had a new batch," Robert said. "He said come back in five minutes. We did, and it tasted like bad vinegar. That's what you get, I guess, when you drink 5-minute old wine."
Mustafa from Turkey, our waiter, said he had just taken a trip through Phoenix and Las Vegas.
"I fell in love in Arizona," he said. Watching him leave the duty free shop with two big bottles under his arms, I can see him falling in love in many places.
Richard from Jamaica, our room steward and master of the towel monkey and elephant, was finishing off his six month tour this week. Once he was done with our room that morning, he'd be jumping ship and flying back home to see his 13-month old daughter. This guy would bend over backwards for us. If we asked him to repaint the room in pastels, he'd be down there with his assistant and buckets of paint while we were slurping cocktails by the jacuzzi.
The next morning we wake and drag our bags down to the Windjammer for our final meal and Wife has yank me from the lox table. But it doesn't seem like Royal Caribbean doesn't want us to leave. We wait, and wait, and wait until our color is called. It's a 90-minute process that chaps my ass because I could be back in the buffett chanting "Lox, lox, lox."
But while we're waiting, I realize just how relaxed I am from this trip. I can honestly say that feeling lasted through the holidays until the Chargers made the playoffs. I'll need another cruise just to relax from the playoffs.
And a word of advice for those would be cruisers, don't fall for the ship's fear of God routine about contraband. We bought into their mind control and I could have got on board with a brick of Mary Jane in my pants and enough prescription drugs strapped to my ass cheeks to open my own Walgreens.
Just a tip from your friendly Mikey, cruiser extraordinare.
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