The Cruising Bug
The news slipped under the door after Skagway.
Unlike the usual colourful drift of shopping flyers, cocktail
party invitations and come-ons for art auctions, bingo, massage
therapy and shore excursions, this was a plain message in
black and white. A “health notice” from the captain.
Apparently we had a bug on board.
The gastrointestinal kind.
You could almost hear the gasps of alarm from behind each
cabin door.
But the next few lines were intended to soothe. The illness
was not life-threatening, had no long-term effects and was
second only to the common cold in causing illness, but still…
drear words like “symptoms”, “isolation”,
and “infirmary” sprang off the page.
It was CRITICAL (in caps) wrote the man in charge, to wash
hands thoroughly and often. “Rub all surfaces of lathered
hands vigorously for 15-20 seconds before rinsing. We cannot
over-emphasize the importance of doing this very simple thing.”
Ever counted up to 20 as you wash your hands? It feels like
preparing for surgery. But we wore our soap to a sliver, alert
for the smallest intestinal grumble as we ate (oh, how we
ate) and drank our way aboard the good ship Ryndam through
placid summer seas from Anchorage down to Vancouver, drifting
past glaciers and slipping through narrow forested inlets
between towering snowy peaks.
The Ryndam is a Holland America line ship of impeccable reputation.So
polished was the service that we hadn’t given a moment’s
thought to hygiene as we breezed ashore at a string of tiny
Alaskan ports now enjoying their second gold rush.
In the old days it was yellow metal that brought the hordes.
Now it’s giant ships, some carrying 2500 or more tourists.
Four or five vessels per day jostle for parking space at coastal
towns no bigger than, say, Russell – and there are 450-odd
ship visits per season. Dockside shops and eateries somehow
have to cope, sometimes (we now realized) not that well.
“You might be interested to know,” we heard on
the PA the next day, “that all four ships in Skagway
yesterday picked up the virus.” Some bar, some café,
somewhere, had pitched us all into a frenzy of hand-washing.
The cruise industry, understandably, gets chills at the merest
mention of on-board illness but it’s no secret that
many shipping lines have had to scrub down bug-bearing vessels
recently, right down to cleaning the buttons on lift walls
and TV remotes.
We should have been forewarned because we were sanitised even
before we first stepped on board. At the foot of the gangway
stood a waist-high device like a fish bowl on a stand. It
automatically dispensed a pungent squirt of antiseptic liquid
onto your outstretched hands as you passed by. Just in case.
The virus spreads by jumping from infected faeces (charming
thought) to the mouth on food or contaminated surfaces. The
treatment is simply to lie low and let it pass, which usually
only takes a day or two.
Cruise ships aren’t, of course, alone. The Norwalk virus
(also called the Norovirus) can strike in any place where
people live close together – such as in hospitals, military
camps and, in Auckland recently, rest homes.
But on cruise ships? Those plush and swanky interiors seem
so sparkling you wouldn’t think a common bug could get
a look in.
But give a virus an inch and it’ll take not just a mile
but the promenade deck too. When 20 per cent of 1557 passengers
aboard the Regal Princess got sick in August last year, its
Atlantic cruise was cut short by a day so everyone could be
off-loaded in New York and the ship scoured extra-clean.
According to the United States-based Centers for Disease Control,
24 outbreaks of cruise-acquired viral gastroenteritis broke
out on 17 ships in 2002. By late last year, another 26 shiploads
of passengers had got that queasy feeling.
It can happen aboard the classiest of ships. All of man’s
ingenuity in building behemoth boats pales against the power
of a tiny virus.
No one can say whether there’s more of it about, or
whether it’s just being reported more. In the steamship
era passengers often groaned in their beds for days, but sea
sickness is less common now that ships are so big and designed
so well that they forge steadily through what would once have
been nausea-inducing swells. Complain to the ship’s
doctor of nausea, vomiting and diarrhoea and you’ll
be noticed, especially if you also have a fever, headache
and stomach ache.
It is, of course, a cruise marketer’s nightmare. Upchucking
does not square well with glossy publicity shots of tanned
and happy vacationers.
So when the Norovirus strikes, it’s action stations.
On our ship, we could no longer stroll the salad bar by ourselves.
Instead, we were kept at bay behind velvet ropes, pointing
to our choices from afar so that plastic-gloved staff could
tong the food onto our plates. All self-service was banned.
They emptied the Jacuzzis and locked the library shelves so
the bug couldn’t spread on books. Salt and pepper shakers
went, replaced by single-serve paper sachets. Fresh fruit
disappeared from bowls in the cabins. You could even get plastic
gloves in the casino in case the roulette chips were unclean.
In the internet cafe, the manager sat with a giant tub of
antiseptic wipes at her elbow, ready to swab down mouse and
keyboard after each use. “I’m just going down
to the crew area,” I heard her mutter to an offsider.
“We’re still on red alert, remember.”
We had met the ship’s doctor, an affable guy who’d
taken the job as a relaxing break from running a busy ER in
California. “See you in the Crow’s Nest later,’
he said. But when we went to the bar, he was nowhere to be
seen. Busy, no doubt, down below.
Anyone who got sick, whether passenger or crew member, had
to report it. And then they had to stay isolated in their
cabins for 72 hours with all meals delivered to them –
though it was hard to imagine anyone wanting food while the
virus had its way with their guts.
So stretched was the manpower that at breakfast even the ship’s
top chef could be seen dishing out hash browns at the buffet.
Meanwhile, an “intensive and frequent cleaning regimen”
meant that anything possibly touched by human hand was scrubbed
and wiped and then scrubbed and wiped again.
And it worked. The spread of illness stopped. We cruised serenely
on, even if the dining room seemed a tad emptier than before.
“If it gets up to 200,” one crew member darkly
confided, “you’ll all be flying home while the
ship goes into quarantine.” But gossip had it that only
12 people had fallen sick from the passenger list of around
1200.
“No, it was 45,” said someone I met after we’d
all disembarked. “My friend had it. She was pretty sick
for a day or so, but she’s fine now.” She was
also mollified, no doubt, by payment of some compensation
– a few hundreds dollars, apparently.
The bug stories aren’t deterring passengers from heading
out to sea. Cruising is booming. Demand from North Americans
and Europeans is expected to top 12 million passengers per
year by the end of 2010. More than 50 new cruise ships have
been built recently (like Queen Mary 2) or are on the drawing
board – at a cost of more than $US8 billion.
Cruising appeals in this age of airport hassles because once
you’re on board you can unpack, kick your suitcase under
the bed and just go with the flow. Once you’ve endured
security the first time, you’d don’t have to do
it again. All you need to take when you go ashore is your
boarding card and a photo ID. Your driver’s licence
will do.
And the giant new liners are for people seeking far more fun
than shuffleboard and deckchair naps. On Caribbean cruises,
average age is down to 39 because eager singletons, family
groups and youthful boomers are leading the cruising revival.
You can wear yourself out with fun and games, or just chill
out and do very little. And most ships carry lecturers with
knowhow on port culture, geography and natural history so
there’s intellectual stimulation on tap too.
Next summer the massive Sapphire Princess sails Australasian
waters from December through to March. The biggest ship ever
to visit (2700 passengers) she’ll be in Auckland and
Wellington seven times and Dunedin and Christchurch six times
as she slips back and forth across the Tasman on voyages lasting
around two weeks. Fjordland, Hobart, Melbourne and Sydney
are included in her ports of call.
Sapphire Princess has five pools, nine restaurants and cafes,
eight jacuzzis, a mini golf course, wedding chapel, luxury
spa sanctuary, two nightclubs, 13 bars and lounges and the
biggest on-board internet café on the planet.
Those trips are almost booked out already, though you might
still grab an obstructed-view cabin (lifeboat in front of
window) for around $3000 per person.
Also coming to a town near you is the Discovery, a refurbished
and much smaller ship (600 passengers) from the “Love
Boat” era, which is doing two nine-night voyages from
Auckland to Auckland, taking in seven local ports including
Tauranga, Napier and Akaroa.
Note that if money’s no object, the smartest way to
sail out of New Zealand this summer is aboard the Silver Cloud
on a 10-day trundle to Cairns. Prices range from $7960 to
$9937 per person. You’ll be glad to know that includes
liquor and fine wines.
So go on, have a good time. Just remember to wash your hands.
Listener magazine
© Copyright 2009-2010 Lindsey Dawson