To The Queen, God Bless Her
Sorry, I know it’s been a long time between posts. You probably thought I’d given up on the whole thing. No, you’re stuck with me I’m afraid, it just took me a while to get over the shock of crossing the Atlantic in Winter. I told you I was worried about it. Turns out, the worry was well founded.
I swear I went into this whole thing hoping for the best, I really did. Despite a run-in with the USDA folks about Shadow’s paperwork before departure, which caused some major concerns, I was in a positive frame of mind. And you know what they say about optimism. Here’s the log, as it happened. Brace yourselves…
Day One
The flight to New York was seamless, we had a smashing evening seeing the sights and a lovely six mile hike along the waterfront to stretch everyone’s legs before we boarded.
Check-in was a dream, we boarded the ship like royalty with everyone "oohing" and "ahhing" at the dogs as they paraded us through the ship. Shadow was hamming it up for the crowd, stopping for cuddles the entire way. Leaving her in the kennels was very hard. It’s cramped, noisy and she’s not used to being in a cage, but she took it all in her stride and was very brave. We were allowed to go and take her out every few hours so it was somewhat bearable for all concerned.
We weren’t leaving until midnight due to the premiere of the movie ‘The Greatest Showman’ being held on board, so we had some time to kill. We spent the afternoon exploring the ship, having a nice lunch and settling in to our beautiful state room. All in all, I was feeling pretty good about the journey ahead. We put on our glad rags for dinner, had a lovely meal of beef wellington for Mr T and a fish stew for me, a few glasses of terrific wine, and a spot of dessert. We went up and said goodnight to Shadow and headed to bed.
Now you may remember that I got some little patches from the Doctor which are supposed to eradicate seasickness. After a lovely glass of champers on the balcony as we sailed past the Statue of Liberty, Mr T gently stuck one behind my ear and by chance noticed the writing on the packet.
Him: "They’re very specific about washing your hands after you touch these things. What’s in them?"
Me: "No idea, but they are supposed to work great. I think they might make me a bit drowsy but should be fine. Like a long lasting Dramamine."
Him: (peering at the packet) "It says something here about blurry vision, dizziness and drowsiness. Did you read that?"
Me: "Oh they always say weird things like that. If you read the warnings on Advil you wouldn’t take it. They like to be over dramatic."
Him: "It says it a few times on the front and back. In yellow. I’ll just go and wash my hands, just in case."
I was too busy filling out the breakfast slip to notice, would I feel like eggs or something sweet? Choices, choices. I fell asleep dreaming of pancakes and bacon as we slipped out into the ocean.
Day Two
The phone is ringing. I’m on my feet running towards the noise and wipe out over the coffee table. I try and stagger back towards the bed and trip over my own feet. I can’t see. I fumble the the phone to my ear and it’s the butler asking when I want breakfast. I don’t know what I said, Mr T doesn’t even know, he says it wasn’t English. Who knows when breakfast will be here. Urgh breakfast. I lie back down and pass out.
Two hours later I stagger from the bed to the bathroom to hide while someone brings in breakfast. I still can’t see. My eyes feel like they are going around poker machine style in my head. I’m so dizzy I’m crawling around our room on my hands and knees. I don’t know my own name. Christ, I’m in trouble here.
Me: "Take this effing thing off me. I can’t get about like this."
Him: "You’ll get seasick though. Are you sure that's a good idea?"
Me: “I’ll take my chances. It’s not that rough, is it? GET IT OFF!”
He rips the patch and a good number of my neck hairs off. It takes me six hours for me to feel normal. I couldn’t tell you much about that period, it’s gone forever, along with my dignity.
In the afternoon, I decide to try and buck up. Exercise is what I need, a good vigorous walk is just what the doctor ordered. We head to the gym which happens to be at the front of the ship. Now then, if you’re not a sailor, you may not know that one of the very worst places to be if you suffer motion sickness is at the front of the boat. Which is where I now find myself, trying to walk on a treadmill, looking for all the world like a cross between Norman Wisdom and John Cleese. The sea churns and the ship weaves and bobs in the storm that is gathering out the window. Who thought this was a good idea? After 20 minutes, I give up.
By the time we head up to see Shadow at 3pm, we’re at gale force winds. The sea’s looking very angry indeed and I’ve gone from white to a fetching shade of green. Shadow and I look a sorry state of affairs as we both nap in the kennel visiting room. Mr T looks from one of us to the other, not sure who to worry about the most.
I manage to drag myself out of bed for the black tie dinner that was going on regardless, apparently no one had noticed the ocean was frothing and spitting with rage outside the window. Sure, I’ll pretend this is all perfectly normal too. Why not. But I can’t face the food.
Me: "Just consommé for me please."
Waiter: "That’s all madam?"
Me: "Yes please."
Waiter: "No main course?"
Me: "No thank you."
<Uncomfortable silence>
Me: "Sorry it’s just, you know..." (making a rocking motion with my hand).
Waiter: "Oh."
It’s almost as if he doesn’t feel the ship lurching about in a drunken fashion. The same scene occurred when they bought Mr T’s main. No main madam? How could this be? Furrowed brows all round. I feel like I’m the only one who thinks the ship is moving in the slightest. Is it me? I can practically hear the gale howling from here. The furrowed brows leave the table and a few minutes later over comes the very charming Maitre’d. The tables around us all pipe down sensing trouble.
Him: "Is there a problem Ms Harrison?"
Me: "Oh no problem, the food all looks wonderful. It’s just I’m feeling a little…" I don’t want to say the word sick out loud so I just make a face.
Him: "Ah, I see." <sympathetic nods all round> "The movement."
The movement. Well now there’s a euphemism I haven’t heard before. I like it.
Me: "Yes, yes, the movement, I’m afraid. Terribly sorry."
Him: "I understand Ms Harrison." With a barely a nod all the waiters disappear and the other tables resume their conversation.
He’s just so charming and so discreet that it almost makes me feel better already. I press him for more, desperate for any kind of reassurance.
Me: "Will it last long do you think?" I’ve already exasperated Mr T asking him the same question but now I have a new friend so I figured why not.
Him: "It will be a touch worse tomorrow I think, but it’ll be ok. Please let us know if we can help in any way." And with that, my new friend disappears.
Wait, what? Does he mean it will be worse tomorrow weather wise but it’ll be ok as in not as rough? Or that it’s ok in general, as in don’t worry even if it is rough the ship can take it. And even if the ship can take it, can I? I ask Mr T all of these questions as he demolishes his steak. He has no good answers.
As we wobble out of the restaurant, the Maître d’ gives me such a winning smile that I almost forget that it’s only day two of a seven day journey. It’s going to be ok after all.
As we get ready for bed we can hear the wind howling like a banshee outside and the whole room creaks and groans like we’re on a small sail boat. I turn on the TV info channel for some reassurance. It says the winds are a number 8 on the Beaufort Scale and the sea state is “rough” which, incidentally, is exactly how I feel. I feel like I’m trapped on a roller coaster and we’re in the climb phase. Maybe it’ll get better? I go to sleep with my fingers crossed.
Day Three
I’m up shit creek and there’s not a paddle in sight. It’s getting proper rough now. I’m going to need something, anything, to get me through. Mr T practically carries me down to the ship’s shop and we ask for Dramamine. They don’t carry any seasickness pills, the woman behind the counter tells me with a sniff of indignation. What the actual eff??? These people are in denial! Why, in the name of all things holy, would they not have seasickness pills on a ship. It’s a conspiracy. I get proper angry. It doesn’t help.
On the way back to the room, we meet the Butler. I'd like to say I approached him with friendly politeness, but I can't lie, it was more of a desperate lunge.
Me: <with a slightly manic look> "Look here, I’m ill. Please. I need seasickness pills. Dramamine. Anything. Please."
Him: “Ah is it the movement?”
The bloody movement. Honestly, the whole ship is in denial. Occupy Wall St is a movement. The French Resistance maybe. These people make it sound like Dumbledore’s Army is out there causing mayhem. Mr T leads me gently towards our room mouthing something to the Butler over his shoulder.
The Butler brings the pills before I've even reached the bed and I could have kissed him. Mr T lets me take two rather than the handful of pills I had lined up. I don’t remember much of anything else. I slept like Rip van Winkle’s narcoleptic sister. Mr T dragged me to the kennels every few hours to see Shadow, where we both sat feeling sorry for ourselves until visiting time was over. It’s all a blur to be honest. I may or may not have had pants on. It’s anyone’s guess.
Mr T tells me that the Maître d’ called and said he’d found us a lovely private table. I joke it’s probably called the Pukers Table before I lapse back into my seasick coma.
As fate would have it, things have indeed gotten worse since I fell asleep. We are now in a Force 11 gale categorized as a "violent storm." Well, shit. We’re not even half way through yet. All the open decks have been closed due to the “movement” but we’re still allowed on the top deck where the kennels are. Apparently dog owners are either expendable or more fool hardy than most folks. Or both.
As we stand on the rolling deck, bracing against the force 11 gale trying to convince Shadow to pee, on comes Captain Philpott for his daily announcement. Or Captain Doom is more accurate. Yesterday, he was talking about the movie A Perfect Storm. You know the one with George Clooney. Spoiler Alert: they all die. It’s a movie about a gigantic wave coming and killing the whole crew. Why in the world this is a topic of conversation on a boat let alone something that has earned a place in the Captain’s daily announcement is beyond me. Today, as we struggle to hear him over the roar of the violent storm, his fun fact was to tell us our position relative to the final resting place of the Titanic. True story. Bet this fella is a barrel of laughs at family parties.
I sleep for the rest of the day. Mr T is now so bored he’s watching Torquay vs Gateshead on the TV. All time low. Dinner is another black tie affair, but with the pitch and roll of the ship all the men look like little penguins slipping and sliding along the halls. Maybe that’s the drugs. It’s hard to tell. I think I’m dressed but who knows.
Day Four
I sleep, all day. Like every hour. Mr T does wine classes, goes to the pub, checks out the Christmas market. He tells me all about it and I can't remember a word. He drags me up to see Shadow at regular intervals. Two of the dogs were ill in the night. The smell would probably knock me off my feet if I wasn’t already high off the pills. Shadow wants to know when we can get off. I hear ya kiddo. Can she talk now or is that in my head? It's hard to say.
The winds have gotten up again, Force 9. The ocean looks like a washing machine and I try not to look. Are my eyes even open? We’re half way. God help us. The dog owners in the kennel visiting room are all feeling seasick. It might be the most depressing place on earth but there are some laughs to be had. The camaraderie is not unlike a prison camp. The irony that we’ve all spend thousands of pounds to travel in luxury only to sit in the most basic and uncomfortable room for 6 hours a day is not lost on anyone, especially Mr T. Poor lad. I’d feel sorry for him if only I could stay awake long enough.
Day Five
I took enough of the sea sickness pills to knock out a rhino. It was a rough night. Even Mr T felt like he was going to fall out of bed with the rock and rolling.
Talk in the kennel visiting room is about the first thing we’re going to do when we "get out." We’ll be getting tattoos and bartering with cigarettes any minute now. The sun comes out for a brief hour and it’s like a new world. Smiles, laughter even. And then within the hour the wind kicks up, the swell starts to build and we all look nervous again. I try to resist the urge to weep but I’m unsuccessful.
Even Mr T had to take a seasickness pill towards the end of the trip. A large wave hit us on day six, everything fell off our shelves, the plant pots broke and I hear the kitchen lost a lot of plates. People in the bar said all the bottles hit the deck. This seemed like an unusual thing but it’s hard to tell, people don’t speak of it. It's like Voldemort, they dare not speak it's name.
Honestly the rest of it is a blur. All I know is we survived. I've never been happier to see Southampton, and I'm pretty sure no one says that, ever. Shadow is none the worse for wear and in fact got spoiled rotten after we got off so I'd say all in all she ended up ahead. So was it worth it? Yes it was.
But would I recommend it? Well, if you like sailing, I would say that the Queen Mary would be an amazing experience. It really is a wonderful way to travel, the food and service was excellent and it sure beats the inhumanity of air travel hands down. People really do love it. However, if you get motion sickness, maybe try the Orient Express. The Queen Mary is not for you my friends, unless you go around the Carribean or somewhere with very little "movement." And take your own seasickness pills.
But here we are, in England. In one piece. Praise the lord and pass the bottle!
