No sooner do we get over the high angst and high drama of the Chilean miners’ ordeal, than we have our own little homegrown version: The Carnival Splendor, dead in the water off Mexico, with thousands of our fellow citizens having to endure hardships that most of us, snug in our landlubber beds, can only imagine.
For three days, our vacationers were powerless to do much other than try to figure out how to avoid having to use a non-functioning toilet. (Clue: don’t drink the warm beer.)
Fortunately, there were no fatalities, but having no AC, no cabin lights to read by, and no hot food for three days wasn’t exactly a trip to the beach. And as for everybody into the pool. Fuggedaboutit. No filtration pump, no Marco/Polo.
Yesterday came the news an anxious nation had long awaited: The Carnival Splendor had reached dock in San Diego, and the first of our warriors were rolling their suitcases down the gangplank. The ones on the lower decks were no doubt cursing, as they schlepped bags the size of refrigerators up nine flights, that they’d packed three times as much as they needed.
Fitting that the dramatic return of the Splendor occurred on Veterans Day, so that the vacationers could enjoy a brief empathetic connection with, say, the sailors on the U.S.S. Indianapolis who were eaten alive by sharks while awaiting rescue in the waning days of WWII. Or the doughboys in the Flanders trenches of WWI who were eaten alive (or dead) by lice, rats, and other forms of vermin. (That’s when they weren’t being shot at or gassed.)
The Splendor’s passengers have more than mere physical discomfort in common with the military.
Both were subjected to a diet of Spam, of all things:
Navy helicopters flew in Spam, Pop Tarts and canned crab meat and other goods for the passengers and crew, passengers said.
Hmmmmm. Glad to see the fly-boys heard and responded to the cries of those in peril on the sea. And I understand that there could be no hot food. But if you were going to subsist on cold food, wouldn’t you hope for something better than Spam and Pop Tarts.
If I’m ever marooned at sea, neither would be on my wish list. (Nor would canned crab meat, although if I had to pick one out of three…)
I’d rather someone airlift me a loaf of bread, some peanut butter, and a package of Oreos. And stuff to make salads. And fruit (canned if there’s no fresh).
Okay, the fridges weren’t working, but salad fixings last a day or so without refrigeration.
Give me something other than Spam and Pop Tarts or give me - well, if not death, then – a knock on the noggin’ that would put me out until we got to a port of edible call.
In addition to the toilet, food, and bev situations - just think: no blenders and ice, no pina coladas; that’s not a cruise, it’s a travesty – the casino was closed down, too. Oh for the days of the mechanical slot machine!
Blessedly, there was entertainment available:
Gary Grabel…was among 250 magicians on board for a conference who performed for the guests after the power failed.
"I did magic for hours," he said.
Boy, I bet if he had a dime for everyone who asked him if he could magically make a cup of coffee, a clean toilet, or a pina colada appear, he’d be a rich man.
Meanwhile, Carnival is making good with refunds, future cruises, etc. But I bet it will be an air-conditioned day in hell before some of the cruise survivors sign up for another sea-farin’ getaway.
Well, at least the ordeal only lasted a few days.
Could have been worse.
The Chilean miners were trapped for over two months.
And the folks on the SS Minnow were stuck for three years on Gilligan’s Island. Plus forever in re-runs. And they didn’t have Pop Tarts or magicians.
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