Atlantic Crossing - Part Six

Mel arrived and found me in the pod by the indoor pool. She climbed in with a book and we relaxed watching the water flow on by. We'd read. We'd sleep. We'd wake, read again and fall asleep. Most of the morning passed us by in just this way. Eventually I crawled out of the Jaws of Inactivity, as the pod affectionately became to be known, and I spied a masseuse who has set up a massage chair over by the entrance to the spa.

Mel encouraged me to go have a seat. I do and as soon as the shirt comes off the lady sees the scar and asks if there is anything she should be aware of before she gets started. I gave her a brief history and she explains that while they are not set up for physio, a gentle hot rock/ hot oil massage might be just the thing to keep me tuned up.

I got the 10-minute warm-up in the chair and made an appointment for the full-on the next afternoon. I headed back to the Jaws and crawled in with Mel. She was in sound-asleep mode. The ocean was in rolling-by mode and the wind was still in hurricane-blow mode. I sat with the i-Pad and took notes of our adventure so far. I had realized soon enough that I would need to take notes daily of our activity if I were to recall everything. Notes could be banged off quickly. The writing took much longer. I whipped off two days of adventure so far over the remainder of the afternoon.

Eventually it was time to get out of Jaws and start pulling ourselves together for our first dinner in formal attire. Formal because tonight was the captain's official welcoming of the guests. After dinner you had an opportunity to meet and greet the captain following his champagne toast to all aboard, which was conducted in the Silhouette Theatre, fore-ship, decks three and four.

We headed to our state room. All the laundry sent for pressing had returned. Mel dons her most beautiful satin silvery grey chiffon dress and wrastle into my red plaid skirt. Kilt actually. With the vest and matching Prince Charlie jacket. And the sporran. With the flask. For the whiskey. And the dirk. For defence. And the skindu. For when they take away me dirk.

We looked smashing. And that's good because although there is no prize for best-dressed, there are photographers all over the ship tonight ready and willing to take your picture and then your money. We headed out looking for a pre-dinner cocktail. We arrived at the Martini Bar, fifth deck, overlooking the atrium and pulled up two large wing back chairs in view of the band on the atrium floor, deck three.

Mel was in for the Gibson and I went with the Hendricks on ice with olives. There was a four-man, a capella group singing on stage. They were excellent, but not really what the crowd was looking for at a 7 p.m cocktail hour. We listened to the music, sipping our drinks watching the elevators rise and fall like pistons in an engine. All the formal wear stepping in and stepping out. Mostly tuxedos accompanying the most beautiful ball gowns and evening dresses done up to the nines.

We watched a family with two young lads aged 10 and 12-ish, with father and sons all in Scottish Kit, unload from the elevator and approach. Cordial greetings from one clan to another and we learned there are four families on board, all related, with three generations each to celebrate the 50th wedding anniversary of the grandparents. We let 'em know of our 25th and after a short chat, they moved off toward dinner.

The waitress returned and asked if she could refill the Martinis.
"No thank you. But you could refill the flask if you would".
"No problem sir. What would you like in the flask"?
"Irish whiskey"
"No problem sir. We have Bushmills and Jameson."
"Jameson, I think"
"No problem sir"
She returns with the flask in minutes and says, "That will be $30, please. On your room account"?
Yikes! I vow to buy a bottle in the on-board liquor store the next day.