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