I refuse to subsidize a rescue from a perfectly good luxury hantavirus cruise

I was enjoying a perfectly adequate snifter of armagnac at my club on Sunday morning when I was violently interrupted by the news that the Australian government is intervening in the natural operations of the free market. According to reports that have ruined my weekend, Canberra is chartering a flight to repatriate four citizens and one permanent resident from the MV Hondius, a luxury cruise ship currently docked in Tenerife. The justification for this grotesque expenditure of taxpayer funds? A minor hantavirus outbreak that has resulted in three unfortunate fatalities and eight mild illnesses among the 146 people on board. I must confess, I find the entire spectacle of this rescue mission to be thoroughly embarrassing. When did we become a nation of such coddled, unimaginative travelers that a localized biological event is treated as an excuse to abandon a premium maritime itinerary?

Let us be absolutely clear about what is happening here. These five individuals paid a substantial premium to be sequestered on a state-of-the-art vessel. Now, because of a slight deviation in the onboard entertainment schedule—namely, a strict confinement to their cabins to halt the spread of a lethal pathogen—they are demanding to be flown back to Perth on Tuesday. It is a stunning display of ingratitude. I spoke just yesterday with several executives in the luxury maritime sector, and they share my exasperation. We have spent decades optimizing the cruise experience so that passengers never actually have to interact with the outside world, and yet, the moment we deliver the ultimate frictionless, zero-contact vacation, the clientele demands an airlift.

Four citizens and one permanent resident are scheduled for this flight. I must ask: permanent resident of what? Certainly not of reality, if they believe the Australian taxpayer should subsidize their inability to complete a booked itinerary. One must question the dedication of a resident who so eagerly attempts to return home the moment their overseas vacation includes a minor epidemiological setback. The MV Hondius is not some dingy freighter. It is a luxury ship. To be confined to one’s cabin on such a vessel should not be viewed as a quarantine; it should be celebrated as a mandatory retreat. Do you have any idea what I would pay to be legally ordered to remain in my suite, blissfully insulated from the tedious small talk of my fellow passengers at the captain’s dinner? The modern traveler is obsessed with "mindfulness" and "unplugging," yet when the universe provides them with a federally mandated opportunity to sit quietly in a room with a good book and a rapidly mutating virus, they immediately call their embassy.

Furthermore, I am continually baffled by the modern obsession with sterility. Hantavirus is typically transmitted through contact with rodent droppings. In any other context, the presence of local, organic fauna on a vessel would be marketed as an authentic, heritage nautical experience. A stowaway rat is the ultimate maritime tradition. It connects us to the great explorers of the eighteenth century. If you want a completely sanitized, risk-free environment, you should vacation in an operating theater. If you choose to embark on the high seas, you must accept that you are entering a majestic, untamed ecosystem, and occasionally, that ecosystem will aerosolize in your ventilation shaft.

We must also consider the devastating economic impact this hysteria is having on the hardworking shareholders of the cruise industry. The MV Hondius arrived at Tenerife, the largest of Spain’s Canary Islands, on Sunday morning. Do you realize the port fees involved in docking a luxury vessel of that size? The logistical nightmare of coordinating a quarantine with Spanish maritime authorities? And rather than supporting the company through this challenging quarter by quietly waiting out the incubation period, these passengers are generating negative press. It is deeply selfish. The cruise line has already provided them with three complimentary meals a day slipped under their doors, which is frankly better service than one receives at most Michelin-starred restaurants in Sydney.

I reached out to my contacts in the industry to confirm that I am not alone in my assessment of this situation, and they were universally appalled by the government's intervention.

Mr. Vane is entirely correct. True luxury is exclusivity. What could possibly be more exclusive than a ship that absolutely no one is allowed to board or disembark? The MV Hondius has temporarily become the most elite club on the planet, a floating fortress of high-net-worth individuals bound together by a shared statistical probability of respiratory failure. The four Australian citizens and one permanent resident currently demanding extraction are walking away from a once-in-a-lifetime networking opportunity.

And let us speak of the destination itself. The vessel is currently idling off the coast of Tenerife. The Canary Islands are breathtaking. I have spent many a pleasant summer on those islands, and I can assure you, the view of the volcanic coastline is magnificent. Tenerife is a jewel of the Atlantic. The fact that the ship arrived on Sunday morning means these passengers have been blessed with a full weekend of uninterrupted, socially distanced sightseeing. I know people who would gladly pay upwards of ten thousand dollars for a wellness retreat that guaranteed they would not have to speak to another human being for fourteen days. These passengers have the distinct privilege of gazing upon this paradise through the hermetically sealed porthole of their luxury cabins, safe from the throngs of budget tourists on the beaches below. They are enjoying the ultimate VIP vantage point. To complain that one cannot walk on the sand because one might spread a deadly rodent-borne disease is the height of entitlement.

It is worth contrasting the fragility of these modern tourists with the resilience of past generations. When Sir Ernest Shackleton’s ship was crushed by the ice of the Weddell Sea, he did not immediately demand a taxpayer-funded charter flight back to Perth. He camped on an ice floe for months. He and his men ate penguins. They did not whine about the lack of buffet options or the fact that a few of their colleagues had succumbed to the elements. They understood that travel involves a certain degree of friction. Today, a mere three people perish on a luxury cruise, and the immediate response is an international rescue operation. We are softening as a species.

I myself am no stranger to travel adversity. Just last year, I found myself stranded in the first-class lounge at Heathrow Airport for nearly seven hours due to a baggage handlers' strike. The champagne selection was severely depleted, and I was forced to consume a non-vintage prosecco. The Wi-Fi in the lounge was intermittent, forcing me to rely on my cellular data to instruct my broker to short the airline's stock. It was harrowing. Yet, I persevered. I did not beg the government to send a Royal Australian Air Force transport plane to rescue me from the indignity of a subpar charcuterie board. I sat in my leather armchair, stared out at the tarmac, and endured my hardship with quiet dignity. I expect nothing less from my fellow countrymen.

The precedent set by this Tuesday charter flight is incredibly dangerous. If the Australian government is willing to fly a plane halfway across the world simply because a luxury cruise ship has been turned into a floating biological hazard zone, where does it end? Will we send military helicopters to rescue tourists who find their hotel pillows too firm? Will we deploy the navy to extract expats who have contracted food poisoning from an undercooked scallop in Monaco? We are creating a moral hazard. We are teaching consumers that they bear no personal responsibility for the risks associated with premium maritime leisure.

I say let the MV Hondius stay right where it is. Cancel the flight to Perth. Let these five Australians remain in their luxury cabins, looking out at the Canary Islands, breathing in the rich, historic air of their vessel. It is time we stopped coddling the affluent and started demanding a return to the stoic, uncompromising spirit of genuine travel. If you cannot handle a little hantavirus, you have absolutely no business leaving the suburbs.