Stop The Ship Chapter 1
Hell Will Freeze Over First! “No. No. No. And for the love of sanity—no again.” Hardly the most diplomatic way to begin, I grant you, but if you’d endured the same mind-numbing campaign of psychological warfare for three solid weeks, you’d understand. My name’s Dave. Just Dave. No frills, no airs, no middle initials—just a regular, easy-going bloke who’s seen the world twice over and now wants nothing more than to enjoy a peaceful, predictable retirement. I’m the kind of man who preferred a pint and peace over plans and pamphlets. A retired field engineer who’d spent decades seeing the world from oil rigs, factories, and godforsaken deserts, he didn’t scare easily — unless you mentioned the words “group excursion” or “welcome drink.” Streetwise to a fault, My instinct when danger appeared was to strike first and ask questions later, a habit that had kept him alive more than once and landed him in trouble just as often. With a dry sense of humour and a deep suspicion of anything labelled “organised fun,” he’d been dragged onto the cruise kicking, grumbling, and muttering about floating prisons. A man who liked his eggs fried, his beer cold, and his holidays firmly on dry land, Dave had declared cruising “a floating hell” before boarding. And yet, as his wife often reminded him with a smile, he was usually wrong — and hated admitting it. I’ve just passed my sixty-fifth birthday—not that I’m counting—and after a lifetime spent in oil-soaked overalls as a field engineer for one of the world’s less compassionate energy giants, I’ve finally called it quits. My travelling days are done. Over. Finito. The only voyage I want to embark on now is the slow, scenic amble from my back door to the fridge for a cold beer. Paradise, in my view, is nothing more complicated than settling into my weathered sun lounger on the patio, a frothy pint in one hand, my ancient transistor radio crackling out a test match from Lord’s, and a gentle breeze teasing the edge of the morning paper. Cricket, cold drink, peace. That’s heaven. That is, until the assault begins again. “Dave, doesn’t that look wonderful? Dave, look now or you’ll miss it!” The voice belongs to Sally—my wife of thirty-seven years, and the most determined negotiator I’ve ever encountered, boardrooms included. Petite, sharp-eyed, and blessed with the stamina of a prize fighter, Sally is a woman who knows how to wear a man down. Sally, is the calm to his storm — sharp-witted, effortlessly elegant, and well-practised in the art of letting her husband rant without ever losing her smile. Where Dave saw danger, she saw adventure. Where he saw chaos, she found charm. Graceful without being aloof and well-travelled enough to carry herself with quiet confidence, Sally had the rare ability to glide through new experiences with a sense of ease that suggested she’d already been there before — and probably made friends with the locals. Though Dave liked to think of himself as the protector, more than once it was Sally who had saved the day — diplomatically, discreetly, and usually without him even realising it. She’s currently sitting upright on the edge of the sofa, her perfectly manicured fingers pointing at the television screen like a courtroom prosecutor presenting Exhibit A. It’s ten minutes to ten., this it’s the third time this morning the same cruise advert has popped up on morning TV, and the third time I’ve tried to pretend it hasn’t. But Lady Luck has clearly abandoned me. I need a diversion—and fast. “Fancy a cup of tea?” I ask brightly, as if it had just occurred to me. Classic misdirection—worthy of a Vegas illusionist. She doesn’t even blink. “Yes. And I also want to go on a cruise.” There it is. The ‘C’ word. Again. Over the past twenty-one days, the word “cruise” has lodged itself into every single conversation we’ve had. It has crept into the shopping list. It has appeared in emails, on post-it notes, and even on a mug she bought that reads Life’s a journey, enjoy the cruise! I’m not kidding. “Jane’s been on seven cruises,” she tells me at breakfast. “Have you seen the new brochure that came this morning? It’s all about cruising,” she says half an hour later “Everyone I know has been on a cruise,” she sighs five minutes later as if we’ve failed some sort of middle-class rite of passage. And then the killer line, reserved for maximum emotional leverage:
“If you loved me, you’d take me on a cruise.” Let’s be clear—Sally wants to go on a cruise. I, most emphatically, do not. The mere thought of being imprisoned on a floating Butlins with two thousand strangers for two weeks fills me with dread. Or, in this case, eight weeks. That’s right—Sally’s latest obsession is a 56-day “adventure” from Southampton to Sydney. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a coward. I’ve worked on oil rigs off the coast of Angola, survived a cholera outbreak in Venezuela, and once got stuck in a sandstorm in Kuwait for two straight days. But voluntarily putting myself in a floating tower block of karaoke, buffets, and organised “fun” for almost two months? That’s a bridge too far. Does she have any idea how much ocean lies between Southampton and Sydney? Half the planet, that’s how much—and most of it has a notoriously bad temper. All that guff in the brochures about “millpond waters” and “sun-kissed serenity” is just that—guff. PR spin crafted by a twenty-something marketing intern who’s never seen a wave taller than the edge of a jacuzzi. This cruise would snake through some of the worst seas on earth. The kind that swallow lifeboats and rearrange stomach linings. Why in the name of common sense would any rational person choose to do that? And yet, they do. Millions of them. Cruising is the fastest growing holiday market in the world. Which tells me one thing—most of those people must be a sandwich short of a picnic. Why else would you subject yourself to eight weeks of small talk with complete strangers, communal dining with people named Derek and Maureen, and endless queueing for something called “The Captain’s Cocktail Soirée”? I’d be writing poetry with a teaspoon on my cabin wall before we even reached the Azores. And then there’s the Atlantic. April. The North Atlantic. Just the thought makes my stomach tighten. You see, when I was eight, my teacher—clearly possessed—assigned us a term-long project on the Titanic. That’s right. Dozens of eight year old kids poring over black-and-white photos of twisted iron, hearing tales of freezing water and dancing orchestras playing people to their deaths. If she’d wanted to instil a lifelong fear of ocean crossings, she succeeded. I remember learning how the Titanic had been billed as “unsinkable.” I also remember how that worked out. So no, Sally, I won’t be crossing the Atlantic in April. Not now. Not ever. And as for spending fifty-six days trapped on a ship full of cruise converts and musical theatre enthusiasts? Hell will freeze over first.
stevehopkinsdirect
“I laughed so hard the people around the pool thought I’d gone mad. Every cruise disaster I’ve ever had is in here somewhere — only funnier. A brilliant reminder that travel may broaden the mind, but it also provides endless material for comedy.”
stevehopkinsdirect
This book should come with a warning: do not read in public unless you’re prepared to snort with laughter. From chaotic excursions to bar-room blunders, it’s like taking a cruise with your funniest friends — minus the seasickness.”