Floating on a Sea Cloud - Part 1

Three Blind Mice?

Andy was barely over the weekend of the invasion of (and desertion by) the Three Blind Mice, bestest friends Nancie of AOL.com, St. Clairmarie of About.com, and me of DelaWhere, when we were off to the trip of a lifetime.

Sea Cloud in Antigua

Our spirits soared when the taxi turned the corner in St John, Antigua.  There she was, Sea Cloud, alongside.  Astern of  her, Star Clipper.  I almost pinched myself, but a sliding suitcase did it for me.   The forest of masts, the sun sparkling on the blue water of the harbor, the realization that a dream was about to come true ... one word.  WOW!

I'd read about Sea Cloud years ago and knew very little about her except that she'd originally been Marjorie Merriweather Post's private yacht, restored and entered into passenger service.  I remembered the photos in the magazine ... surely we would never sail in such unmitigated luxury.

As with most silver lining situations, we had to start with a cloud or two...

Rewind....

Pam, Andy and their "other" car

The decision, made on Monday, to sail on Saturday (a Spring Break Saturday) hinged on finding seats on some sort of airplane going somewhere in the vicinity of Antigua.  Newark, NJ, about 90 miles north, was to be our jumping-off place, San Juan our overnight stop, then on to Antigua.  After killing several hours in Newark International (limo services were jammed up, too) we were finally aboard our seriously overbooked flight. Who wasn't aboard was one of the star players for a semi-pro football team, on their way to San Juan for an exhibition game. When his comrades discovered his absence, they jammed the aisles and refused to sit down for takeoff. After, quite literally, over a million miles of air travel, it was my first experience with an on-board mutiny. The uprising quelled, we settled in to nap our way to San Juan. I don't think the three linebackers seated in the row in front of us got much sleep.

I miss the old San Juan airport, open to the sky and sultry tropical heat, where lizards were as plentiful as porters. But outside is still the same. A snarl of taxi drivers practicing creative driving Puerto Rican style, sunburned or pasty white vacationers, coming and going.  For me, there's a soft sense of La Isla whispering "Welcome Home" and my brain re-sets to La Vida Borinquena. I am home. At least for a little while. 

Before we got outside, a moment of panic. Where was our luggage? All five pieces of it? The football team was gone, the lady we'd been talking with had her bags, the place was rapidly clearing out. I'd forgotten my own long-time observation ... the first luggage loaded on is the last luggage out. Por fin, our ratty green bags, survivors of almost too many flights and cruises, came chugging along the carousel. Taxi time.

We slept fast, inhaled breakfast, and mounted a hunt-and-gather mission on a supermarket and a bookstore.  Armed with essentials (the toothbrushes we forgot to pack and books for the cruise) we reported to the airport for our flight to Antigua. Delayed. Told that it would be quite some time before departure, Andy went in search of appropriate liquid refreshment.  He'd barely disappeared up the escalator when the flight was called. I was working on biting my tongue, not reminding him that we'd been told not to leave the gate area, when he loped into sight carrying welcome Cokes.

Once we were shoehorned into the (overbooked) small plane, the pilot taxied along in a way that felt almost jaunty.  After all, anybody going to Antigua is going for fun, right? At the end of the taxiway, we stopped. And stayed. The pilot (my husband) and the former flight attendant (me) took professional looks at the runway. Nothing was going on. Nobody was taking off, nobody was landing. Unusual, to be sure. After a long spell, the real pilot spoke, in the drawl that must be a required course in pilot school. Seemed that a tribe of marauding iguanas had invaded the runway and were taking the noonday sun. The Iguana Patrol had been dispatched to coerce them off the runway so we could take off. Iguanas chased ...

We took off.

We landed.

Tons of luggage loaded into a cab, we were at the pier, where this part of the report started.  We were allowed to leave our luggage on the pier and I was given special dispensation to put my ditty bag, containing jewelry and cash, in the cabin's safe.  Off we went to visit long-time friend Janet, whose store, Island Woman, sells the best batik in the Caribbean.

Photo: Pam Kane

Once aboard, champagne flowing, I revealed my ignorance by inquiring about a key to our stateroom.  "Madame, on Sea Cloud we do not consider keys to be important."  Indeed, the keys are available for visual inspection but never used.