Greetings from the SS Clusterfuck.

Reporting from Cadiz Spain, October 14, 2024.

It finally happened. On September 30, after four months of waiting, the Villa Vie Odyssey was sailing out of Belfast. Until it wasn’t.

There were camera crews filming our departure. Speeches were given. Champagne was poured. Dances were danced. Sparklers were sparkled. (which may have been a fire code violation). Many Residents (As we are properly addressed. Please don’t call us passengers or we are required to shun you.) stayed up all night. I went to bed early, right after we did the Lifeboat drills where mostly I learned that I have no idea how to put on a lifejacket. To summarize: I will drown.

We spent the night anchored off the coast of Northern Ireland. And then, the next morning, we turned back around. We were told that we were heading back to Belfast Cruise Terminal, berth D1, the same place we’d so joyfully departed the night before. Apparently, we had not been completely certified to the satisfaction of assorted maritime authorities. No big deal, we were told. We’ll go back to the terminal, show them our papers — insurance stuff mostly — and then be on our way.

That’s not how it went.

Nothing about this trip, except for the fact that I’ve been drunk a great deal of the time, has gone like it was supposed to go. And I don’t just mean that we’re four and a half months behind schedule and were stuck in Belfast longer than the Lord Mayor has been in office.

It’s that every single thing, from the food to the furnishings, the tv channels to the swimming pools (neither of which are yet operational), have turned out to be something less than advertised. Not on a catastrophic level — there weren’t any corpses in the cabins or anything, at least not on my deck — but it’s all been somewhat disappointing, somewhat shoddier and somewhat less functional than the brochures led us to believe. Have I mentioned that the beer sucks?

Poor bastards. Unaware of the hell that awaits them.

So it was very on-brand that our first day at sea turned out to be another day when we couldn’t get out of Belfast. Then we couldn’t get back in, either. Some other ship had taken our place at the dock. What the hell else could go wrong? (Spoiler alert; pretty much everything.)

Let’s review, shall we, some of the many malfunctions which have turned us into the SS Clusterfuck.

In Belfast, the Harland & Wolff shipyard, where we were drydocked during our many months of repairs (and the place where the Titanic was built) went bankrupt. That’s right, they survived the Titanic, but not us.

This meant that when the months of repairs and false starts were finally over and it appeared we were on the verge of boarding the ship, we couldn’t. Because most of the shipyard workers (including security guards) had been let go and there was no safe way for civilians to get onto the ship. That’s why we had to wait an extra 3 days, until there was an open spot at the nearby Cruise Terminal, before we could board.

We were told on Monday morning that we’d probably be boarding sometime in the late afternoon, probably before 3. Buses were hired to pick up Residents at various hotels and shuttle them to the terminal, which is basically just a parking lot and a big tent. Except — and you knew this was coming — there were last-minute problems with paperwork and no one could confirm what time we’d actually be boarding, or if we could board at all. Oops.

In a day-long drama eerily reminiscent of our previous delays (“No, it’ll just be a couple more days and then we can go. Okay, maybe 3. Next weekend, FOR SURE!” ) our estimated departure time kept slipping — 3p.m., 5 p.m., 7 p.m., 9 p.m. The slot at the terminal was only reserved until 11 p.m. If they couldn’t board us before then, they’d have to postpone for at least another day. As of 5 p.m., Odyssey still hadn’t left the H&W shipyard.

By then many Residents were already on the shuttle buses, headed for a teerminal that might or might not be open, to board a ship that definitely wouldn’t be there before they arrived. I was not among them, because I am a Goddam genius, who decided not to leave the friendly confines of the Room2Hometel lobby until I had confirmation that the ship was actually boarding. In the interim, I drank the hotel’s literal last drops of Maggie’s Leap IPA

The well has run dry. Farewell, Maggie.

.

It was 8:30 p.m. before we actually boarded, 11:30 before we actually shoved off. We were told our offshore anchorage was just for the night. We’d get that pesky paperwork squared away and then be on our way: First destination: Hunterston, Scotland. For refueling and dumping the wastewater tanks.

Ok, that didn’t happen, either.

The paperwork dispute took 3 days to resolve, all of which we spent anchored offshore. When, for whatever mysterious reason, we were given the green light to go, we hauled ass instead for Brest, France. Mike Petterson , the CEO, attempted to christen the Odyssey, heaving a champagne bottle towards the front bow, from whence it proceeded to bounce, unbroken, onto the deck. On the third try, the glass finally shattered and we were underway.

The Odyssey, leaving Northern Ireland for Scotland. Or Brest. No one really knew.

I’m not sure when the hot water stopped working, but it was sometime that first night. They also asked us not to do any laundry for a few days. A pipe needed repairing, apparently. So, you know, they literally ran out of steam. (Who’s keeping a doomed voyage metaphor count? Anyone?)

Upon arriving in Brest, passenger were informed that, uh, sorry, but you can’t get off the ship. Because we’d left Belfast so late we’d been unable to arrange a proper port reservation for Brest. So we were stuck at a container port and, being a Saturday, there were not enough dock workers available to set up a functioning gangplank/passport control operation. Once again, we were stranded.

Me at the launch party, apparently somewhat skeptical.

Also — and this is when things got to be really fun — they shut off the water entirely. Nothing from the taps, nothing from the showers and — most importantly — no way to flush the toilets. Most Residents didn’t realize this — the shutdown happening in the middle of the night — until AFTER they’d made deposits, so to speak. Yep, we awakened to the faint smell of shit marinating in a hundred unflushed bowls, wafting through the corridors, gently mixing with the ocean breeze.

They got the toilets flushing — and the cold water running — later that afternoon. But the hot water — and my willingness to shower — didn’t return until our second day in Bilbao, the first port since Belfast where we were actually allowed to leave the ship.

All this plumbing trauma is apparently because our wastewater tanks were improperly installed by the former owners. At least that’s Villa Vie’s explanation. Instead of separate black water (aka shitwater) and gray water (aka shower water) tanks, everything drained into one nasty bacteria-ridden combination tank, which had to be dumped as if it were black water. In other words NOT in the ocean. So the tanks filled up way too fast, the water had to be shut off and, well, before you know it you’re dangerously close to a Triangle of Sadness situation. Why did no one notice this before we set sail? I have no idea.

They fixed it in Bilbao, apparently and we’ve had plenty of hot water and a minimum of shit smells as we’ve proceeded to Gijon, Lisbon, Portimao and Cadiz. I can’t tell you anything about any of those ports, though, because I didn’t get off the ship.

Why is that, you ask? Cause I got Covid, goddammit, probably somewhere between Belfast and Brest. If you need me I’ll be in my room.