By Petula Dvorak
Washington Post Staff Writer
Sunday, April 2, 2006
There are no icebergs between Jamaica and the Cayman Islands.
But that didn't ease my fear of cruise ships. For me, it was the poolside conga lines, hairy chest contests, all-night buffets and sequin-encrusted dinnerwear that stiffened my resolve to dismiss my in-laws' invitations to cruise with them.
But this is the year I caved. And my maiden voyage was on Princess Cruises' Star Princess, the very ship that was charred in a fire on the open sea March 23 en route from Grand Cayman Island to Montego Bay, Jamaica.
Turns out, we survived the cheesery of cruising just fine. It was that initial fear, the more reasonable human instinct to avoid being trapped on a 109,000-ton floating city in the middle of the sea, that got us.
The ship sounded an evacuation drill at about 3 a.m. that left us sitting in a lifeboat station for roughly six hours as we stared at tiny life rafts dangling off the starboard side.
The blaze that killed one passenger, injured 11 and damaged more than 100 cabins was a frightening experience that taught us everything doesn't have to be an adventure -- and anything can turn into one.
* * *
As Day 4 at sea came to an end with another spectacular sunset watched from teak deck chairs on our expansive -- and expensive -- aft balcony, I was almost ready to say cruising is good. When I wasn't playing catch with my 20-month-old son, Milo, on the Lido deck or speed-walking his stroller around the Sports deck, I lived at the spa, where I was wrapped in seaweed, scrubbed with rose petals and pedicured in a milk bath.
I began to melt away in luxury. Adventure for me became the brave act of taking our toddler to a sit-down dinner in the Portofino dining room, rather than the casual buffet.
That changed with a long, loud beep early one morning, then a voice over an intercom that said "Eleven. Port." I was still groggy and figured something had happened on the 11th floor port side of the ship that didn't concern us. Maybe a medical emergency. So I went back to sleep.
A breath or two later, I inhaled the acrid, unmistakable smell of smoke (it's a smell anyone who has worked the police beat knows, and I've pulled a dozen years chasing death and disaster). My husband jumped out of bed and went into the hallway, where he saw passengers running with their orange life jackets in hand. I opened the balcony door and saw huge roiling clouds of black smoke spilling over the upper balcony and into the night air.
For a very brief moment, I tried to decide what to take. Passports? Do we need passports in a life boat? My mind was a complete blank. I couldn't think of anything I should take besides our sweet, sleeping child, who still had a smear of mango sauce on his cheek from dinner in the fancy dining room.
My husband called his parents to make sure they were awake. Thankfully, we had attended the safety briefing at the start of our trip and knew where to go. And yes, we had all made fun of it while we were there.
I picked up Milo and our life jackets and ran to the deck below. Crew members were deploying the inflatable rafts, orange survival tents that said "35 PEOPLE" on their roofs but looked big enough for a slumber party of eight girls. I've belittled my husband's own obsession with such devices aboard our own boat. I instantly regretted every joke.
I tried to figure out how to put the baby life jacket on Milo, something I'd thought of doing after we had boarded the ship days ago, but had abandoned so we could get to the pool. The smell of smoke grew stronger.
I've chased fires for years as a reporter. In most cases, the firefighters who keep their fire engine doors open and slide down poles to make every second count knock down the flames in minutes, before I get there. On the seventh floor of the Star Princess, we waited and waited. The captain announced several times that the crew was still battling the blaze.
I knew this was bad. If this had been a fire like those I had witnessed before, it would have consumed the building by now and crews would be working to keep it from devouring anything nearby. But it was just us, aflame in the open sea.
Then again, maybe a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. I kept quiet and kept thinking. We were about five hours from land, the life boats were tiny and I hadn't brought a bottle, diapers or Thomas the Tank Engine. We certainly were doomed.
Some of the passengers were like me, in their pajamas, disheveled, stunned, eye corners crusty, constantly blinking to make sure this wasn't a nightmare. Others were neatly dressed. Some wore their fancy velvet jogging suits with rhinestone accents. One woman even added the matching visor. There were those with fresh makeup and others still caked with last-night's mascara smears. One man brought a crossword puzzle. A woman carried her knitting.
Outside, on deck near the lifeboats, passengers were wondering how fast it would take to get inside them and how harrowing the long drop to the water would be. It was windy and cool on the deck, and the wind whipped the smell of smoke through the ocean air and into the ship. In the Vista Lounge, the cabaret dancers were huddled at the edge of the stage in sweats and pajamas. Passengers slumped at the cocktail tables and booths. It was quiet except for a persistent chorus of coughs and hacks.
At one point, three soot-covered firefighters, men who looked a lot like the deckhands I saw polishing railings earlier that day, ran through a hallway and passengers erupted in round of applause.
As we waited and tried to keep our child calm, there was a distinct change in the cruisers around us. Those who earlier in the trip hadn't held doors open for the stroller or had abandoned their deck chairs next to us when they saw Milo now rushed to help. Milo's wail for a bottle was quickly answered by one woman who offered up her Evian. Another convinced a bartender to unlock the pantry and presented a glass of milk.
It turned out the cruise ship's pretty young things who emcee the frozen drink exhibition and call out the conga line were also very nice -- and capable. They kept people calm, fetched medicine and water, and maintained order.
One of them asked for our room number and sent a crew member to open our fire-heated door with a wet towel and bring back the precious bottle, diapers and Thomas the Tank Engine. They even brought Thomas's friend, the blue train named Fergus.
After repeated updates on the fire that was likely caused by a forgotten cigarette, and the announcement that the hot spots were almost out, we pulled into Montego Bay at about 9:30 a.m., escorted by curious boaters and news helicopters. We were allowed back into our stateroom, which stank of smoke. My in-laws were kept from their smoke-charred room, which was drenched with two inches of water, for several more hours.
The crew took off their life jackets and donned aprons to assemble a buffet. The grand piano was quickly pressed back into action, but the upbeat tunes made creepy background music for stunned passengers who dragged around garbage bags of their blackened possessions salvaged from the cabins.
My poor mother-in-law, Jane, was exhausted. She flopped on a deck chair. "I so wanted you to like cruises. What were the chances this would happen?"
My husband and I realized that we hadn't approached the cruise like veteran boaters and travelers we fancy ourselves to be.
The "ditch bag'' of water, food, medicine and supplies that we take with us on bareboat charters in foreign seas and on our own boat was never assembled. The man-overboard drill we repeat to our passengers was never mentioned.
All my preparations for this cruise had gone into fretting about an outfit for formal night, buying swim trunks for Milo and, yes, finding a cute skirt for me, the kind that would look perfect in a conga line.
Petula Dvorak is a reporter on The Post's Metro staff.
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