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Any Chance I Get

Writer's picture: Pru WarrenPru Warren

Oct. 19 (Saturday)

 

I hosted a hootenanny in the South Pacific.



Our “day at sea” featured some lectures in the morning, but the afternoon was empty until 4:30 when Ian Toll continued his series on WWII in the Pacific. So I asked Lyle Lyle Crocodile if I could have a sing-along for anyone who wanted to come. He was thumbs-up on the idea, and said we could have it at 3:00 in the lounge.

 

Kennedy Warne, the Nat Geo writer/photographer has been tickling the ivories each evening before recap in the lounge and he’d told me he’d sung in a barbershop quartet. That’s the peak pinnacle of harmony, so YAY! I got Kennedy to agree to do it with me. We figured out a list of ten songs (I pulled fourteen in case people were digging it) and Kura said she’d find me a guitar. Excellent!

 

But she also said she was working on her lecture for tomorrow (on tattoos; what an excellent South Pacific topic!) and was worried about her talk; she'd planned on taking the afternoon to work on it. So when I realized that Lyle had assigned HER to be the Lindbladian rep at the sing-along I realized I’d stepped on her toes. This was clearly time when the staff got to take a break and do whatever they wanted to do, without kowtowing to a bunch of overprivileged passengers.

 

She was stressed initially, but told me not to worry about it. She said she’d end up enjoying a sing-along. (Which, of course, she did, but I still felt bad for her, and guilty.) We had a few minutes of crisis in trying to get my song lyrics on the screens in the lounge, but it all worked out. Kura said she’d be the scroller, which meant I could stand by Kennedy to hear his piano. The man was MAKING IT UP AS HE WENT and damned if he wasn’t outstanding. But once Kura began to play her ukulele and sing, I had to abandon the Kennedy ship and stand with Kura in the central podium area. And NOBODY joined us.

 

That’s not true—wonderful Harry came, and another four or five guests, plus lovely Heather and charming Erin from Lindblad. But never mind! A hoot is a hoot! Kura and I sang loud and hard and Kennedy improv’ed fourteen songs like a professional musician and I, at least, had a hell of a good time! I chose some of the songs SO poorly, though…for example, the Beach Boys classic “Sloop John B.” What better song to sing in the South Seas, right? Sailing music from the original surf sound singers? Yeah. No. It’s all about “this is the worst trip I’ve ever been on,” and let it be noted that this is NOT a good song for a cruise ship.

 

I sniggered.

 

Again, it’s all about what makes ME happy, right?!

 

We finished shouting our songs and in the hubbub of ending things, Harry picked up the guitar and reminded me that the guy is REALLY good—but he hates the idea of performing. And that’s a shame; he’s excellent!

 

Kura came to get the guitar and Harry surrendered it so she could get back to her Tattoo Talk prep, but she sat down again and played (beautifully) the intro to Blackbird—but she’s never heard the Crosby Stills Nash version. Oh the frustration of not being able to summon videos on the ship’s internet! I made her sing a verse and tried to show her at least one of the CSN harmonies. “We should do this, you and I. Tomorrow.”

 

“What? What’s tomorrow?”

 

“Oh, you know.”

 

Ah, but I don't know. There’s vague chatter about a “crew show” in which the crew performs and at which I may or may not be “special guest! Special guest!” I don’t know what I’ve signed up for, but God knows if anyone wants me to sing, they won’t be able to hold me back. So, whatever. I’m agreeable!

 

I’m taking a break from the Ian Toll lecture; I’m not mad about WWII info, and as Twig put it, “I’m pretty much full up of people talking at me.” Lindblad DOES like to fill the empty time by getting their experts to give lectures. This morning I went to James’ talk on what makes oceans into the lungs of the planet (which was interesting but, as he apologized, sort of a 300 level college class) and Erin’s talk on the biogeodiversity of the planet’s islands. Yow. So now that I’ve shouted my glee in a Melanesian hootenanny, I think I’m going to sit quietly in my strange and wonderful cabin.



(My cabin is a very odd shape; I’m tucked into a stairwell so I have two large windows in an extremely long and narrow room with a “waist” on one side—a curved wall that bulges into my space. That someone jiggered this space into a cabin is genius, but it is a decidedly strange room. I have two twin beds even though this is a single room; not sure who the second bed is for, but never mind. I do wish I had a room like Twig and Harry’s, with a sofa and two chairs in a seating area by the sliding glass doors to their French balcony, but at least I can see out my windows. That’s a major plus from the original room on the third deck.)

 

Once again, I am in excellent spirits. Tomorrow we go to Norfolk Island, which is part of Australia. But Norfolk Island is spang in the middle of Absolutely Nowhere. I know the nationality; I’ve filled out the little customs card…but I don’t think I get to claim I’ve BEEN to Australia after this one. I think I have to touch down on the mainland at some point—right??

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