Finding Wings at Sea

I had never been on a cruise ship and never expected to be. I’d only watched them slowly dock or disappear from ports in the Caribbean and Latin America. I’m a diver and fond of boats of all kinds.

But this was not a boat. It was a ship--more precisely, the 733-foot Carnival Holiday, which can accommodate almost 1,500 passengers.

I was traveling in a group of 27--another first--and had only a vague idea of what was supposed to happen next. We had barely begun to settle into our small, neat cabins when the alarm for the lifeboat drill shrieked. The drill was like the rest of our five days on board as we sailed from Los Angeles to Ensenada and back: confusing, noisy, strange and oddly entertaining.

We were no ordinary group of cruise ship passengers. I was one of six volunteer chaperons leading 21 disabled travelers--men and women, young and old, mildly to severely retarded, many with physical limits as well, all of them thrilled to be here.

A friend, Yafe Binns, works for Trips Inc., the travel agency that arranged the cruise. He had invited me to join him as a chaperon on one of his many working vacations--emphasis on “working.” On this one, he was the group leader. My background in nursing and my experience with special-needs individuals, both as a nurse and as a writer, put me in common company with the other chaperons, all of whom were professionals in the field.

So here I was, the alarm screaming and I wrestling my roommates--Elberta, 50, and Judy, 48--into their life vests, putting mine on incorrectly and heading for our designated emergency zone with the rest of the group.

The bright orange life vests alternately blinded or strangled us as we dragged and pulled our charges up one identical stairway after another.

Elberta is small and round and walks in mincingly small steps. Judy limps and has a paralyzed arm. They were excited and bewildered in the chaos. A few ran ahead, but Elberta and Judy followed me, holding my hands. Follow me where? I had no idea where I was going.

Trips Inc. is a travel agency for disabled people who want to take real vacations, like this quick cruise to Catalina and Mexico. Most of their 3,000 clients are mentally handicapped, and many have never traveled.

With his shaved head and beach-bum wardrobe, Yafe stood out even among our conspicuous group. He handled the complex schedule and mountain of paperwork. We all helped with medications, money, hygiene--but mostly, the chaperons were supposed to help the travelers enjoy their vacation.

I could have gone to Graceland or Paris with Trips, to Hawaii for a dolphin encounter or to Tucson for horseback riding. Instead I was in the most foreign of places. This huge ship was a new culture, with its own vocabulary, its own economy and manners.

A large part of my job was helping the travelers get to meals on time, find a bathroom, return to the correct cabin among hundreds of identical cabins a dozen times a day.

Beginning with the lifeboat drill, the ship’s routine was marked by noise and excitement. So much to do--nightclubs, games, a gym, bingo. There was noise everywhere--live bands at the swimming pool and lounges; canned music in the hallways; ka-ching, ka-ching in the casino; singing waiters at the dinner table.

Announcements reached even into our cabins, startling me off the toilet the first afternoon as we were called to play the Hairy Chest Contest and the Newlywed Game.

Food was the one universal, an all-you-can-eat marathon available 24 hours a day. Two dining rooms, a huge cafeteria, salad bars, cereal bars, mounds of pastries, made-to-order omelets and burgers, dim sum, sliced cake. There was no escape. It took days to discover how many different ways there were to eat on board: the midnight Mexican buffet, the all-night pizza counter, the ice cream cone machine.

I also needed days to decode the confusing layout of the ship. The many floors are named but not numbered. The elevator buttons are numbered but not named. A panel above the door lights up with letters in apparently random order. Day after day we stuffed the travelers into the elevators and rode up and down and up again, seeking our floor. Maps on the walls read, “The arrow shows where you are.” But none of the maps had arrows.

Not all the travelers in our group depended on our expertise. Alva, a lively 24-year-old with one crossed eye and the confidence of a young Elvis, raced through the entire ship several times a day, past “Authorized Personnel Only” signs and down dim hallways and into secret passageways, talking nonstop to every crew member he could find. He always rejoined us an hour later.

I, however, couldn’t walk through the ship on any given floor. I discovered this by getting completely lost while trying to find a restroom.

After breakfast on Day 2, we headed for the tender to go ashore on Catalina. One by one, we slowly stepped into the rocking open boat.

Except Elberta. She grabbed the rail and shook her head, immovable. No way. We begged and cajoled. But she won; it was her vacation, after all, and Paula, one of the chaperons, stayed behind to keep her company.

In Avalon, the rest of us wandered like the lost tribes, shopping. The travelers, most of them with limited spending money, bought the things I’ve seen for sale in beach towns but have never seen anyone purchase: shells with plastic eyes glued on them, plastic wind chimes labeled “Made in China,” plastic sea gull paperweights. They were pleased and showed off their purchases to one another.

Then it was time for ice cream, another hour of deliberation and delight. Many of Trips’ clients live in group homes or with their parents, and to be on their own doing what they wanted and eating what they wanted--to be on vacation--was a new experience.

Back on the ship, the youngest travelers were first in line for the swimming pool and hot tub. For the whole trip, this pool deck was our meeting place and rest stop. The 27 of us took up a lot of room.

Duane, a big, snowy-haired man, colored with his crayons. Wanda and Sharon sat at a table, sipping tea. Paul leaned back in a lounge chair and smiled behind his mirrored sunglasses; he was, he told me later, looking at girls. Tina, who looked mournful most of the time, screeched with joy all the way down the spiral slide, her ratchety, harsh laugh turning heads across the deck. Kevin, wearing goggles, did cannonballs in the 4-foot-deep water.

The other passengers looked us over now and then but were mainly occupied with an organized scavenger hunt for bras, Preparation H and men wearing lipstick.

When the announcer asked for a hula dancer, Bryan, a handsome and articulate 31-year-old whose nerves are twisted by cerebral palsy, tossed his walker aside and lurched over. He let loose, flailing in a hula never seen before while we whooped and applauded loudly.

Later, in a cold gray breeze, everyone danced to canned disco. “Y! M! C! A!” we shouted. Staring at her feet, Cindy, who is 50 and the most severely handicapped of the travelers, stepped from foot to foot and sang tunelessly, grinning as her glasses slipped down her nose. Cindy was cruising.

That evening was the “dress” dinner, and we spent a long time getting ready. Everyone looked spiffy, and most of us were clean. Kevin wore a new tuxedo. Cindy, smiling widely, clomped down the hall in a form-fitting floor-length dress and orthopedic shoes.

The good-natured waiters were obligated to entertain us every night, and that night they snaked between the tables in a conga line. As they passed our table, Alva was on his feet; before I could react, he jumped up and raced down the line, high-fiving each one as though he’d just scored the winning touchdown.

A new day and a new port. Ensenada is a dusty Mexican town, sporting a few spruced-up blocks and a tiny mall by the dock. We exhausted ourselves on the long search for souvenirs, hours of cobblestones and handicrafts. Bryan and Alva both bought cheap guitars. Bryan was determined to learn to play, and Alva thought he already could.

Mexico was strange and exciting. The idea of being in a foreign country thrilled many of the travelers. (“I didn’t know they had weekends in Mexico!” Cathy told me with excitement.)

The highlight of the day--and the week--was going to the ship’s karaoke bar upon reboarding. It was jammed with other passengers, but we were first with our requests. Doug, a 50ish man with Down syndrome who was traveling with his wife, Connie, chose “Country Roads.” He was utterly self-assured in front of the crowd, dancing enthusiastically but not bothering to sing much, his face glowing with pleasure. To universal amazement, he ended by doing splits.

Bryan sang a decent version of “Proud Mary.” Shy Cathy gave us “Knick-Knack Paddywhack.” Big, gray-haired Janet, immobile with nerves, sang every verse of “On Top of Spaghetti.”

When Alva chose “Sweet Home Alabama,” the music came up and the words scrolled by, but he sang “Home Sweet Home” instead--tone deaf, voice cracking, off-key, beaming with the charisma of a rock star.

No one else in the bar had seen anything like this before; they quit staring and were clapping, and I was on the floor with laughter. A night that began as a sitcom turned into performance art, opera, scat.

The last night of the cruise, everyone had gone to bed by 11. Their money was spent, their bags mostly packed. Except Cindy, who sat in the lounge in her giant Mexican straw hat with the chaperons, holding Yafe’s hand and smiling.

The chaperons wanted to go to the bar together, just us, but there was Cindy.

“Don’t you want to go to bed?” we asked.

“Are you kidding?” she said.

So she came along, and we called her the designated driver while we danced a little and ate midnight pizza. There had hardly been a moment of silence in days, and for a moment we stood at the ship’s stern, watching the pearly moonlight.

On our last morning, we waited amid the disembarkation chaos. We took group photos, and Alva played his guitar--badly, of course.

“I had this strange dream last night,” I told Janet.

“What was it?” she asked.

“I dreamed I was on a great big boat with a lot of weird people!” I said.

Her eyes shot open and she said, “I had that dream too!”

For the rest of the day, I could hear her telling people, “I had a strange dream!”

And so did I.

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GUIDEBOOK

Signing on as a Volunteer

About the organization: Trips Inc., based in Eugene, Ore., was founded in 1994 by Jim Peterson, a former residential program director with a master’s degree in special education.

About 35 organized trips are offered each year, and some can be tailored to individual needs. There is usually one chaperon for every three or four travelers, but arrangements can be made for those who need individual supervision.

Requirements: Trips staff suggests that volunteers have some background in working with special-needs clients. Volunteers begin on shorter vacations; as they gain experience, they can take longer trips.

Destinations this year include Costa Rica, Washington, D.C., San Francisco, Hawaii, Nashville and Las Vegas.

Costs: The chaperon’s expenses generally are covered, including lodging, transportation and meals.

For more information: Trips Inc., P.O. Box 10885, Eugene, OR 97440; telephone (800) 686-1013, fax (541) 465-9355, Internet https://tripsinc.com.