Coffeehouse Chronicles …Dolphins, Steamers, and Croc Surveillance
What Up, Chroniclers? Got Yer Cup?
Day One was a sea day.
For you new folks, that's cruise terminology meaning there ain't a blessed thing on the itinerary except eating, drinking, napping, and trying not to get lost on a floating city.
After the TSA incident involving Captain Contraband and his suspicious collection of prohibited liquids, powders, gadgets, and apparently anything else that wasn't nailed down, things settled into a relatively peaceful routine.
Most of our crew slept in.
Not because they're lazy.
Because we're all at an age where travel requires a recovery period longer than the actual travel.
The younger crowd calls it vacation.
We call it "strategic horizontal rehabilitation."
Of course, not everybody embraced this sacred tradition.
The gym rats were up before sunrise.
Tennille was among them.
And so was the Right Reverend Doctor.
Apparently those two have confused a Panama Canal cruise with NFL training camp.
While sensible people were ordering room service and discussing breakfast, these two maniacs were already on Workout Number Two.
Two-a-days.
On vacation.
Somewhere Vince Lombardi is smiling.
If you're looking for me, you'll find me exactly where nature intended: parked on the aft deck, beverage in hand, watching dolphins surf our wake like tiny aquatic show-offs.
Honestly, dolphins are just sea puppies with better PR.
Now, speaking of things not allowed onboard...
The Right Reverend suffered a heartbreaking setback when security confiscated his travel iron.
I know.
Thoughts and prayers.
For a moment we feared the man might actually have to wear an article of clothing with a wrinkle in it.
Fortunately, disaster was avoided.
He's arranged for his cabin steward to bring him a garment steamer every single day.
Not "whenever available."
Not "sometime in the morning."
Every.
Single.
Day.
At precisely 10:47 a.m.
Why 10:47?
No one knows.
No one has the courage to ask.
The schedule appears to have been handed down on stone tablets.
And yes, he steams his T-shirts.
And yes, he steams his socks.
His socks.
I didn't even know socks could wrinkle.
Apparently the Reverend has identified creases invisible to the human eye.
I spent years believing Commander McCroc was the undisputed heavyweight champion of obsessive behavior.
Turns out he's merely an honorable mention.
Speaking of the Commander...
The man thinks he's subtle.
He is not.
Every few minutes he casually reaches for his phone.
Checks something.
Smiles.
Puts the phone away.
Thirty seconds later...
Checks again.
We've cracked the case.
His latest Croc of the Month shipment is being delivered back home.
The timing lines up perfectly with our cruise.
The Commander is essentially trying to enjoy the Pacific Ocean while simultaneously
tracking a rubber shoe delivery crossing three states.
It's the happiest we've seen him all year.
Most people get Christmas once.
The Commander gets it twelve times annually.
Each month another pair of Crocs arrive, and for one glorious afternoon he's basically an eight-year-old kid on Christmas morning.
I swear if Ring added a live camera inside the delivery truck, he'd spend the entire voyage watching it.
The dolphins could start performing synchronized Broadway numbers off our stern, and he'd still be like:
"That's nice. Hold on... my new pair of Crocs just reached the local distribution center."
Now let's discuss Moe and Winnie.
We thought we'd miss them.
Turns out we're doing fine.
They had every opportunity to join us, but like your humble narrator, they were convinced we'd be watching a much longer baseball postseason.
You know the dream.
Blue-and-white confetti.
Ticker tape.
Parades through Los Angeles.
Triumphant speeches.
Instead, reality chose violence.
So here we are.
And there they are.
The truly funny part is that we assumed they'd be working while we were out here roughing it in the sunshine.
That didn't happen either.
As a result, Moe has developed an advanced case of Cruise FOMO.
Medical experts are calling it severe.
Symptoms include obsessive texting, repeated status requests, and an inability to go more than seven minutes without asking what everybody is doing.
His messages arrive with such frequency that we're beginning to suspect he's working undercover for Virgin's intelligence division.
"What are you guys doing?"
"Where are you now?"
"What did you have for lunch?"
"Is the weather nice?"
"How many dolphins?"
"Do the dolphins seem happy?"
Truthfully, we don't have enough time to miss him because we're too busy responding to his texts.
In fact, I'm willing to bet he'll text any minute again.
DING.
There it is.
Hello, Moe.
Nothing has changed since five minutes ago.
We're still on the Lido Deck.
We're still drinking tropical smoothies.
We're still sitting in the sunshine.
The dolphins remain employed.
The ocean is still wet.
And the Commander is probably checking on his Crocs delivery.
Until next time, Chroniclers...you know what to do!
Drink 'em if you got 'em!
Comments