The media wants you to panic about the rodent-borne plague sweeping our quarantined vessel. But frankly, the resulting drop in pool chair reservations has been a triumph for the serious cruiser.
I am writing this from the teak-lined sanctuary of the Pinnacle Lounge on Deck 14, where the espresso is hot and the ambient panic of the lower decks is nothing but a faint, rhythmic thumping. Over the past forty-eight hours, the mainland press has whipped itself into a hysterical frenzy regarding the so-called "Hantavirus Cruise Ship," broadcasting endless satellite images of our quarantined vessel idling somewhere off the coast of St. Maarten. My phone has not stopped buzzing with texts from landlocked acquaintances asking if I am safe.
Safe? I have never been more comfortable. Thanks to the mandatory room confinement of three thousand economy passengers exhibiting early-stage pulmonary distress, I was able to secure a front-row cabana at the adults-only solarium without having to wake up at dawn to place a towel on the chair. The media wants you to believe this is a maritime tragedy. I am here to tell you that it is, in fact, the most exclusive sailing experience of my life.
Let us address the rodent in the room. Hantavirus is, as the hysterical CDC bulletins keep reminding us, transmitted primarily through the inhalation of aerosolized rodent droppings. And yes, it appears that the ship’s lower ventilation system was briefly compromised by an unusually ambitious family of stowaway dock rats. But frankly, if you choose to book a windowless interior stateroom on Deck 3, you are implicitly accepting a certain level of rustic, old-world nautical charm. To suddenly demand sterile, hospital-grade air quality while paying a mere $399 for a seven-night voyage is the height of working-class entitlement.
I had dinner with the Captain just last night—a lovely affair, though admittedly sparsely attended due to the fact that the entire string quartet was intubated—and he echoed my exact sentiments. The cruise industry is the backbone of the leisure economy. To let a microscopic pathogen with a modest 38 percent mortality rate threaten the financial viability of a $1.2 billion vessel is simply bad business.
The media is hyper-focusing on the multi-organ failure, completely ignoring the fact that we have opened up the mini-golf course for unrestricted, 24-hour play.
Exactly. Where is the journalistic integrity? The news networks spend three hours covering the makeshift triage center in the casino, but conveniently omit the fact that the midnight chocolate buffet has been completely reimagined to accommodate social distancing. For the first time in a decade, I was able to approach the fondue fountain without being elbowed by a Midwestern tourist in a novelty t-shirt.
Let’s also spare a thought for the true victims of this hysteria: the shareholders. When I saw the cruise line’s stock dip 14 percent this morning, my heart broke. These are hardworking executives who have spent years optimizing the passenger-to-staff ratio, only to have their quarterly earnings wiped out because a few thousand people couldn't handle a little shortness of breath. It is a stunning display of selfishness. Have the coughing masses on Deck 4 considered how their panic affects the portfolios of retired schoolteachers who invested in maritime hospitality? Of course not. They are too busy demanding ventilators.
People complain about the quarantine protocols. They weep on social media because the Coast Guard won't let us dock. They whine that the tap water has been shut off to prevent further contamination. But adversity is a filter. It separates the true travelers from the tourists.
While the masses are downstairs rationing their complimentary mini-bar peanuts and hyperventilating into paper bags, I am sitting on my private aft balcony, sipping a remarkably crisp Sauvignon Blanc, watching the sun dip below the horizon of a perfectly empty ocean. If the price of unimpeded luxury is sharing a hull with a deadly hemorrhagic fever, I consider it a bargain. It’s time we stopped coddling the weak and started appreciating the sheer logistical triumph of maintaining a fully functioning soft-serve machine during a Level 4 biohazard event. I, for one, will be renewing my deposit for next season.