The first few days were spent peacefully enough, more reading, lots of sleeping, trying to fill in the gaps between mealtimes. One day we were party to a lifeboat drill, which was surprisingly fun. At 10.30 am the alarm went off and we grabbed our lifejackets. The steward appeared at our cabin ready to lead us to the muster station down on deck 2.
When we arrived most of the crew were already in place. Marco, as designated safety office, was busy shouting instructions when the Captain radioed him to say that he wanted the lifeboat tested. Which in practice meant we had to get in. Not an easy task given the acute angle of the thing, and as our seats were at the rear we had to go first. It was pretty comical attempting to manoeuvre down the boat, particularly as the sea was still a little rough, hut we eventually got to our seats, and had to sit in a position not dissimilar to astronauts at take-off as we waited for the rest of the crew to file down.
By the time we emerged into daylight, everyone was preparing for the fire drill. Presumably for his record keeping, Marco was firing off photographs all the time, as his colleagues went about their duties. The steward took us down into the engine room to watch as a crewman, feigning injury, was loaded onto a stretcher and carried out by his giggling colleagues, such was the "act" he put on. One of the designated fire-fighters was being instructed to wave his hose about as if actually extinguishing a fire as Marco took more photos. Meanwhile another fire-fighter couldn't get his oxygen tank working and looked as though he was about to suffocate, before having his head cover removed by a laughing friend. And then suddenly everyone had gone, leaving us alone in the engine room.
After the fun of the days drills, being a Saturday it was party night (the crew usually work a half day on Sunday so they can afford to let their hair down). The Bonavia didn't have a designated party area, so instead a motley collection of tables and chairs were set up next to the outdoor swimming pool, whilst the chef was busy barbecuing an enormous amount of meat. In the evening when we were called down to dinner we saw how busy he'd been. A huge table was piled high with chicken, ribs, spicy prawns and a Philippine tuna dish, as well as the usual trimmings.
Everybody tucked in, and whilst we ate the officers generously saw that our glasses were kept topped up with a disturbing amount of Vodka. Unusually, the conversation flowed that night (it can be difficult at mealtimes, as we have a separate table in the officers mess, so half of them have their back to us). Whilst Gemma was talking about our travels, I was locked in a debate with the Chief Engineer as to who Phil Collins took over lead vocal duties from in Genesis. By the time I had gone to the cabin to grab my ipod as proof, I was aware that the ship had taken on a whole new movement.
When I returned (triumphantly, I might add), we had received an invitation to continue the party in the crews day room, where most of the crew had gathered to sing on their karaoke machine. I have a hate-hate relationship with singing, but the vodka kept flowing freely, so without much protestation I found myself at the microphone. Those who have ever seen me in such a position will know of the terrors that that entails.
In fairness, I gave a creditable performance of Radiohead's "Creep", and I didn't need to read the lyrics for the Cranberries' "Zombie". But by the time I tried my hand at "Eye of the Tiger" I could barely stand, much less stay in time. Which might explain why I resorted to dancing around the cramped room shadow boxing like a deranged Rocky Balboa. For days afterwards this was how several crewmen greeted me when our paths crossed in the corridors.
Whilst Gemma gave her renditions of "let it be" and "wonderwall" with the crew singing and clapping along, I removed myself from the theatre of conflict (with my tail between my legs) and retired to bed. Except I didn't stay there for long - suffice to say that if you drink copious amounts of vodka at sea, a private bathroom is a necessity, not a luxury.I spent the whole of the following day in bed, nursing one of my worst hang-overs in recent memory, feeling every pitch or judder of the ship deep in my stomach. I didn't make a single meal time either, relying on nothing more than the toast that Gemma made me to see me through. It was a day from hell.
The following days were a lot quieter. We fell back into our routine of eating, reading, and the occasional trip up to the bridge to check on our progress. There was a small party one night to celebrate the Oilers birthday (I politely but firmly refused all attempts to ply me with vodka, and was somewhat relieved when the ships supply ran dry). By this time we'd been onboard for 2 weeks, and it wouldn't be unfair to say we were becoming a little restless, beginning to think of certain land based luxuries. For my part I was dreaming about stone-baked pizzas, for Gemma tiger bread and the Peterborough scores.
One evening as we neared Madeira we did hit a small storm, as the wind picked up you could feel the ship being tossed about on the waves. As it was late we tried to sleep through it, but without success as one by one everything that could fall down in the cabin did. One moment, laying stretched out on my back on the bed, I suddenly found my knees uncontrollably approaching my face at a rate of knotts - thank god I'm not flexible, I would have knocked myself out. It was not unlike trying to sleep in a flight simulator, the motion was neither constant nor rhythmic, it jerked you and pulled you about. Later on the bridge the second officer, Dominic, told us the old sailors trick is to line the sides of your mattress with bottles, so it forms a "U" shape in the bed, which keeps you safely inside.
As we approached the coast of Spain, our thoughts began to turn to our route home. We have considered several variables including Seville, Granada, Ronda, and Gibraltar, before heading inland to Madrid and Barcelona and then making our way through France and back home. We haven't quite settled on a final route yet. But having now finished our final sea voyage, we'd like to give you the benefits of our experience of the Pacific, Caribbean and Atlantic, our " 10 point guide to life on a container ship" if you like.
Ten Truths About Life At Sea:
1. A ship does not need an ocean full of huge waves to be thrown about. On some of our roughest days the sea was flat.
2. Contrary to the holiday brochures, the oceans are not full of whales and dolphins. Inevitably, on the brief occasions when they are spotted, you will be in the toilet.
3. Sailors do not say "land ahoy", "batten down the hatches", or "hoist the main sail" anymore. Attempts to do so may be considered disrespectful.
4. Avoid all discussions which necessitate the need to google the answer. All parties will be left unsatisfied.
5. The "serious" matter of the abandon ship drill may well be the comical highlight of the week. Unless a land-lubber like you or I is given vodka and a karaoke machine.
6. Disney has lied to you, sailors no longer wear parrots and eye patches. They now have hard-hats. Do not attempt to elicit a "pieces of eight" from a hard-hat. It is frowned upon.
7. Soup will be served every day, but never a drop is spilled. You will rarely see fish on the menu, unless you catch it yourself. And forget entirely about sushi.
8. Sailors no longer drink rum - they drink vodka. In prodigious quantities.
9. Sailors are prone to extreme generosity when pouring you a drink.
10. The middle of the ocean is not a suitable place to be nursing a hang-over. In fact it's the worst place on the planet for that.
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