The shit hits the propeller.
Reporting from Belfast, Sept. 28, 2024.
As I was saying to Oleg, the Russian acrobat who kept buying me tequila shots at the hotel bar, shit has gotten weird around here the last few weeks. The closer we get to leaving Belfast, the more drama there seems to be. This has become the autumn of our discontent.
It looks like we’re leaving on Monday, in just a couple of days. And maybe we will. But it’s looked like that before. Hell, it’s looked like that for the last four months. There always seems to be one more last-minute goddam glitch — an oil-sputtering engine or a non-blinking emergency light or gremlins in the gear box — and we get a note from Villa Vie, telling us to be patient for a little while longer and to renew our hotel reservations for another couple of days.
When our unplanned stay in Belfast hit the three-months-and-still-not-moving mark, media outlets started noticing, writing and broadcasting about our plight, posting stories that were generally sympathetic and more or less accurate. It started out on cruise-specific websites, like Shipmonk and Cruise Industry News, then got picked up by newspaper websites in the UK: The Mirror, The Guardian, The Daily Mail and The Telegraph, both the London and Belfast editions.
Within a few days there were stories about us on The BBC, Good Morning America, CNN and pretty much anywhere else the phrase “Stranded Cruise Ship” was likely to attract some eyeballs. They’d often get the details wrong, mostly about the price, making it sound as if the now-stranded passengers had coughed up millions of dollars only to find themselves stuck in Belfast for the summer. And a few, the penthouse-occupying elite, certainly had. (My all-inclusive rate, for those of you keeping track, is approximately $3500 per month.)
But none of us were stranded, really. We could come and go as we pleased. And a lot of us wandered off on exotic side trips — to Jordan and Jerusalem, to Spain and Portugal, to Croatia and Norway and Tenerife.
But I, foolishly optimistic about each and every one of the “it’ll just be a few more days” promises, chose to wait it out here in Belfast. Mostly because I was too lazy to re-pack my suitcase, but also because I’d gotten used to the local baristas and bartenders knowing my name and what I was going to order. My scone awaited me every day at the College Street Cafe. The Maggie’s Leap IPA awaited me every night at the Room2Hometel bar. It was good be a regular. My name might as well have been Norm.
The articles were mostly feel-good puffery, (lots of them focused on Captain The Cruising Kitty) leavened with a litany of our delay-causing woes, the defective rudders, the ever-changing certification requirements, the fact that the only beer on board was mass-market pisswater like Corona and Bud Light. (Ok, that complaint was just mine. No one actually published it. ) But they all made a point of mentioning that although passengers weren’t allowed to stay overnight on the Odyssey, we were allowed — encouraged even — to hang out on board during the day, to decorate our cabins, play board games, eat meals, drink shitty beer (Sorry. I know. I need to get past this.) and generally act as if we were already cruising, which, as the never-changing view of abandoned docks and industrial warehouses reminded us, we were not.
The wave of publicity (the only wave we’ve experienced) had some unfortunate after effects. All those residents talking about their time on the ship apparently spooked the insurance company, who were not comfortable having civilians on board a still-uncertified vessel. Also there were rumors that a few passengers had stayed on board overnight, in spite of repeated warnings that everyone had to go ashore by 9 p.m. Just like that, onboard privileges were revoked. The residents, suddenly prohibited from visiting their residences, were not happy. Grumbling ensued.
It got worse. The first set of sea trials had not gone well. The list of things that needed to be fixed before Odyssey could be certified as seaworthy seemed to be getting longer, not shorter. It got darker around here and not just because winter is coming. There was a palpable fear that we might never get out of Belfast, that we’d be sunk without ever leaving port. Some passengers, worn out by the months of uncertainty, decided to go home.
A second round of sea trials was scheduled, allegedly perfunctory, a demonstration that the anomalies of the first round — disappointing indications that the engines weren’t performing up to the required levels — were merely a function of malfunctioning sensors, not really problems with the engines themselves. That’s what we’d been told. That’s what we wanted to believe.
And then, in the middle of all that anxiety, Villa Vie, sent a bombshell of a late-night memo, explaining that the company was bleeding money because of the delays, at least $10 million in unexpected expenditures, $2 million of it spent on passenger expenses — hotels and meals for some passengers, side-trips to relieve the boredom of others, excursions to Liverpool, Portugal and Spain. It was just too much, said the memo authored by Villa Vie CEO Mike Pettersson. From now on, it said, the passengers would have to pay their own bills. Hotel rooms in Belfast were hard to find for less than $200 a night. Some passengers couldn’t afford it. And since they weren’t allowed on the ship, they didn’t know where to go.
It led to another round of considerably less-flattering stories. It got ugly there for a few days. There were angry Residents-only meetings, and the to-be-expected flood of online comments about how Villa Vie was clearly a scam, that the Odyssey would never sail and that those of us still in Belfast were delusional, waiting for a cruise that was never going to happen, our own pockets emptying at an alarming rate. It was bad.
By the end of the week, Villa Vie reversed their position, reassuring us that — of course! — we’d be reimbursed for the money we’d spent while stranded in Belfast. It wasn’t like they were going bankrupt or anything — how silly, that you thought that! — it had just gotten too difficult to keep track of everyone’s hotel reservations and travel plans and so instead of paying everyone’s bills up front, they’d reimburse us once we were underway, giving us credits for upcoming travel segments and bar tabs and such. Yeah, right.
But, reassured that we’d eventually be compensated, the anxiety levels dropped to manageable levels. Are we prepared to mutiny if they rescind these promises? Absolutely. For now, though, we are appeased.
The second round of sea trials were a success. The various certificates of seaworthiness have been approved and, unless there’s a last-minute crisis, we should be boarding the Odyssey Monday and leaving Belfast, at last, on Monday night or maybe Tuesday. After that, I’m confident, we will be devoured by sea monsters.
I was explaining all this to Oleg the other night, between tequila shots. (He’s an actual real person, by the way. ) He was very sympathetic. And also quite shit-faced. He was telling me stories of being a stunt man and a performer at Circus Circus in Las Vegas. He ended the evening demonstrating handstands. Or trying to.
He fell over.
We are on the high seas now, having left Belfast for Bilbao and heading towards Gijon, Spain (and also Hurricane Kirk).
Now THIS is what I want—the singular Joe Rhodes spin that has been sooo very missed. More, please🔥🤞