BrianDavidBruns

An excellent point from Sarge6870, a letter of praise is a wonderful thing to do!

Do you ever wonder if you are merely cheap or actually a horrible person? Tipping is highly variable from culture to culture, and even gratuity-savvy passengers are lost at sea on cruise ships. What tips are expected, what’s appropriate, what’s… ‘normal’? Confusion surrounding this issue was intentionally created by the cruise lines themselves. The open secret is that the majority of staff is paid hardly anything at all. Cruise lines hide this behind gratuities. Especially with the rise to prominence of Carnival Cruise Lines—catering to overwhelmingly American and, thusly, gratuity-expectant guests—cruise lines realized they can get a whole lot more staff for a whole lot less money. This wage model was adopted by nearly every major cruise line, in many ways fueling the explosive growth of the industry throughout the 80’s and 90’s. Prior to that, cruising was exceptional and reserved for the well-to-do. Now it’s a common vacation open to anyone budget-minded. When I was a waiter on Carnival, my monthly salary was around fifty bucks (US $50). That’s for working 12-15 hours a day, seven days a week. Tips kept me alive. (True, tips added up to less than the U.S.’s average minimum wage, but that’s a completely different subject.) Ah, but how much to tip? Even tip-savvy passengers had no basis from which to quantify their appreciation. In America, 15% gratuity is standard for acceptable service, 20% for good service. But on ships, individual meals were not broken down so numerically. So what’s 20%? In my case, Carnival created automatic gratuities for passengers to opt in on for the whole cruise. Waiters knew any passenger who opted out of this service, whatever their reason, invariably skimped on tips. We hated those people. They almost never tipped enough. Especially in my case, because I was a terrible waiter. (if you want to see how bad, read my book Cruise Confidential!) Over time, some services became auto-tipped and others not. Yet every crew member was clamoring for tips, even those without any reason whatsoever for getting any (read: maitre D’s). And what about room stewards, who had no inferred costs for their services? Well-intentioned passengers were confused all over again. Cruise lines used this confusion to their advantage. A great example of this comes from P&O Cruise Lines. Prior to 2012, their managing director Carol Marlow was promoting P&O's value-for-money by pointing out that unlike some of its competitors, their company did not automatically add tips. Then, in April 2012, P&O began requiring auto-tips of £3.10 per person, per day. To explain the complete reversal, Marlow said,“Tipping has always been an integral part of the cruise experience but sometimes our passengers tell us they've been confused over whether or when to leave a cash tip for their waiters and cabin stewards. Our new tipping policy aims to remove this confusion in much the same way as most restaurants these days add a suggested gratuity to the bill.” Nowadays, the majority of cruise lines ‘take care’ of their staff with mandatory tipping. Good! If and when a cruise line offers pre-paid gratuities—and you have a soul—do it. Concerns about the line failing to properly distribute the money are rising, but that’s step two. Step one is getting the cash out of the hands of us passengers (ships are great at that!). The best thing, of course, would be for cruise lines to remove tipping entirely. Basic wages should be enhanced to reflect that and the cost built into the basic price of a cruise. Crew could rely on a regular, guaranteed income. We’ve all had to slave away for absolutely no money at one time or another due to bad service outside our own arena. Plus it’s easier on guests because tips are a hidden cost. Here’s a rough breakdown of current rates (US dollars, per day): Carnival Cruise Lines $10.50 Celebrity Cruises $12-16 Costa Cruises $8-10.50 Cunard $11.50- 15 Disney Cruise Line $12.50-14 Fred Olsen Lines $6.50 Holland America Line $11.50 MSC Cruises $8-10 Norwegian $12.50 Oceania Cruises $14.25-19.50 Princess Cruises $12-12.75 Royal Caribbean Int. $12-14 By Brian David Bruns, author of national best-seller Cruise Confidential. Pics of the people and places I blog about are on my website and FB pages, join me! www.BrianDavidBruns.com https://www.facebook.com/BrianDavidBruns

Yes, cruise ship security is corrupt. Not paid off to smuggle drugs or anything—oh no. Something far more criminal… 2AM. I nervously entered the crew cabin way down on B Deck. Victorio, a serious-looking Filipino, motioned me to sit. Both bunks already held two or three men, the bathroom door opened to reveal several more. The floor of both tiny chambers was fully filled by coolers. I wiggled in beside the others. Victorio asked, “You bring it?” A flash of nerves jolted me. Shaking my head, I defended, “I just found out an hour ago. I’ll bring it tomorrow.” Victorio regarded me solemnly for a moment. The cabin was silent, but for the surge of waves outside the bulkhead. “We do things different than you Americans…” he said slowly. Suddenly he grinned. “In the Philippines, birthday means we buy the drinks, not get gifts. So have a drink. We have an American, boys!” Cheers came for diversity. Drinks came to my hand. Nearby bristled two bottles of Johnny Walker Blue Label scotch, two Black Labels, three bottles of Chivas Regal, and two coolers icing Coronas. He predicted by 5AM all would be empty. We feasted on traditional Filipino foods—or close as could be made aboard. My favorite were strips of cold beef marinated in lime juice and exotic seasonings. I sensed they were pleased I liked a taste from their home. By 3:30AM the party was really rocking (as much as was possible with no women present, anyway), when someone brought out a small, black torture device. Terror seized my soul. It was a karaoke machine, complete with microphone and two large speakers—so large, in fact, Victorio had to sleep with one in his bunk. Cheers resounded in eardrum-crumpling waves. “You can’t turn that on,” I protested. “It’s 3:30AM!” “We got it covered,” Victorio assured me. For some sinister reason, karaoke was a great joy for Filipinos, with a particular passion for rock ballads. Invoking Bon Jovi prompted hands over their hearts. One waiter, Jeffry, was so talented that he entertained guests in the dining room. His crystalline voice cut through the chatter every time. His cover of Michael Bolton was barely distinguishable from the real thing. And Jon Secada? They must have been twins. But that night Jeffry did not want to sing. He wanted me to sing. “Who wants to hear Brian sing Elvis?” The cabin reverberated with a roar of approval. Spontaneity—or more likely, alcohol—encouraged me. “Filipino party: Filipino music. Bring it.” “I thought you liked singing Elvis,” he said. “Oh, I’ll sing it like Elvis all right.” The television featured a surging tropical beach while Filipino lyrics passed by staggeringly fast. Well, too fast for one who couldn’t read Tagalog. I had hoped their native language didn’t use Roman characters so I could wiggle out of it. No such luck. Soon my best Elvis voice sang a sappy love ballad to twenty drunken Filipino men—and the entire B Deck of Carnival Conquest. “Tinapon ng lalaki ang bola sa pader… something… something fried banana sandwich… thank ya, thank ya vury much…. Say, what did I just say?” “You just tried to say ‘the boy threw the ball at the wall’.” “How romantic. A hunk’a-hunk’a burnin’ love I’m not.” A pounding at the door revealed an insanely muscled security officer. Silence fell. Two more men flanked this largest Asian man ever. He frowned angrily, flexed his muscles. “You’re in BIG trouble,” he boomed. “I agreed to let you pay me to leave the party alone… on the condition I get to be the first to sing... after I get off 4!” By Brian David Bruns, author of national best-seller Cruise Confidential. Pics of the people and places I blog about are on my website and FB pages, join me! www.BrianDavidBruns.com https://www.facebook.com/BrianDavidBruns

Some people go to great lengths to ‘protect’ themselves from cruise-borne germs. I’m not talking about the obsessive-compulsive disorder folks who have a legitimate obsession. I’m talking about the sheltered, paranoid freaks who no longer enjoy the benefit of healthy immune systems because they have utterly destroyed every bacterium on their persons with anti-bacterial gels, creams, and probably suppositories. Many a cruise guest enters his/her cabin and promptly wipes down every conceivable well-used surface with disinfectant wipes: light switches, door knobs, faucets, and telephone. Some go so far as to place the TV remote control in a quart-sized Ziploc bag. I don’t blame you, gentle reader. Take a few precautions to feel better. But rest assured, the ship crew has already done this. Every homeport, room stewards disinfect every high touch item in the cabin, especially in the bathroom. That bathroom has about 400 times LESS bacteria than your office desk. But go ahead and wipe down that toilet seat again. Better yet, bring those disposable paper seats. Right? Remember cruise ships clean everything above and beyond what’s required by land businesses. They’re required to. Indeed, I bleached restaurant and kitchen stuff daily until my fingers literally split. Yes, we waiters bleach those menus, salt and pepper shakers, even backs of the chairs. Stewards bleach those elevator buttons and rails. If there does happen to be a virus outbreak on board, we double wash all plates, double wash all glasses, double wash all silver. Feel safer? YOU SHOULDN’T. Bwah-ha-ha! Why do I taunt you thus? Because you, gentle germophobe, brought loads of bacteria with you. Take your toothbrush, for example. You put it in your mouth twice a day (well, you should). Yet your mouth contains billions of bacteria. Scientists have identified more than 700 different types of microbes in the average human mouth [WebMD]. Yet if you don’t cap that wet toothbrush, you are potentially contaminating it by merely flushing the toilet (paper-seat and all). Researchers discovered flushing the toilet sends a spray of bacteria- and virus-contaminated water droplets into the air. These float in the air for at least two hours after each flush before landing on surfaces—like your toothbrush [university of Arizona Department of Soil, Water and Environmental Science]. What about the toiletries you brought with you? Ladies, how often do you disinfect every tube, handle, and applicator in your make-up bag? Guys, you bleachin’ handles on those razors? Remember, you need bacteria to stay healthy. Why do you think babies put everything in their mouths? They’re building up their immune systems! The paranoia of all-things-filthy is predominantly an American trait. We are relentlessly barraged by advertising for cleaning products. It’s gone overboard. Why, even Healthline’s website spread the alarm that washed laundry left unattended in a machine, even a few minutes, is like “the fertile crescent for germs.” If you have a compromised immunity system, by all means take precautions. But sensible precautions suffice for most of us. I worked on ships four years and never got sick once. I survived countless Norovirus outbreaks without incident. The real culprits are our own bad habits. For cryin’ out loud, just wash your hands after using the toilet and before you eat. You’d be shocked how few people actually do that. On Conquest, the captain even had to publicly humiliate himself by singing “Happy Birthday” to himself on the PA system to drive home how long you should soap those hands (CDC says hum it twice). The best thing, of course, is sterilization from the inside out: down some shots of booze. Helps with a great many issues. Brian David Bruns is author of Unsinkable Mister Brown, bronze medal winner at the 2012 London Book Festival.

Congratulations to my latest cruise book, Unsinkable Mister Brown, which won the bronze at the London Book Festival. This marks the second international award for the book, (also took the silver medal in Paris). For those not familiar with my Cruise Confidential series, Unsinkable Mister Brown is the third book, but actually a prequel and a good starting place. I say an excerpt is in order! Here’s how to get a job on a cruise ship: persistence, bribes, and a lot of lies! An hour later we were sitting in the office of Ovidiu, the Romanian recruiting agent for Carnival Cruise Lines. He was a slender man with a handsome face, a very handsome wardrobe, and an extremely handsome office. His suite comprised the entire second floor of a brick building, featuring numerous windows looking into a lush interior court. Light filtered in through an angled glass skylight and past his mezzanine entrance, making it look like a bridge over a jungle. “Americans can’t handle ships,” he said. “So I hear,” I replied, giving Bianca an amused look. She sat in the chair beside mine, looking relaxed but serious. “What is it you think I can do for you?” Ovidiu asked. “I am a recruiter for Romanians, not Americans. There are no American recruiters, of course.” “So I hear,” I repeated. “Why is that?” “Because none apply,” he replied thoughtfully, leaning back. “Why would you want to? The work is very hard, and the money is very small.” Bianca raised an eyebrow, and Ovidiu hastily added, “For an American.” “I’m not thinking big,” I said. “It’s just a waiter job. I’ve been in restaurants for a decade.” “Not on ships, you haven’t,” he pointed out. “Do you know computers?” “He knows computers,” Bianca interrupted, before I could protest. “Other than doctors, who are supernumeraries anyway, and entertainers, who have their own agencies, the only position I can even think of for an American would involve computers.” “I just want to be a waiter, man,” I repeated. Ovidiu leaned forward skeptically. “Why?” “My reasons are irrelevant.” “No, they’re not,” Ovidiu insisted. “Why would they bother with someone who will just quit? They’ll want to know your story before they even think of meeting you. And believe me, they’ll need to meet you.” “I want to be with Bianca,” I explained. “If we have the same job, we can be together. That simple.” “I see,” he said, nodding. “Well, in my ten years at Carnival, I’ve never seen even one American. I would not even talk to you, but Bianca is a good employee and a friend. Again, what is it you think I can do for you?” “You can think Romanian-style,” Bianca answered for me. “Not American-style.” Ovidiu thought for a moment, frowning. “No, that won’t work. The bribes are to convince me, and you don’t need to worry about that. Really, Bianca, I would sign him on if I could. I can’t.” He opened a drawer from his desk and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. We declined his offer, so he casually lit one for himself. He leaned towards me, elbows on the desk. “You want to know why Bianca doesn’t need to bribe me?” “Suddenly I’m not so sure.” “Bianca is the only one who almost beat me. Almost, of course.” I looked at Bianca, but she said nothing. Her delicate wiggle of satisfaction was corroboration enough. “As agent to cruise ships, my job is to screen people. If I like them, and there is a job opening, I find the right place for them. Bianca applied for the restaurants. That’s the highest paid job, so everybody applies for it first. It is also the toughest, so I don’t let them by easily.” He paused, grinned, and offered Bianca a cigarette again. This time she accepted, leaning forward to accept the light with a creak of leather skirt. “She said she worked at a certain restaurant. I called the owner and he said, ‘oh, of course, she has worked here for years!’ That, of course, only meant she could lie and bribe. Romanian-style. Turns out, she only volunteered there for a summer.” Bianca shrugged, explaining, “I needed to learn restaurants.” “I knew she was lying, but couldn’t catch her. She was too smart. She had asked all of her waitress friends penetrating questions and listened close. I asked her this and that, and of her experiences here and there. She had an answer for all of it. The performance was amazing.” Bianca laughed, and added, “Until Ovidiu pulled his bloody secret weapon from the filing cabinet!” Reflecting upon what I knew of Romanians thus far, I presumed this meant a large knife. “A linen napkin,” Ovidiu clarified. “I told her ‘You said you know half a dozen napkin folds. Show me.’ She wilted before my very eyes, like a Gypsy had spit in her ice cream. I told her to relax, go have a cigarette, then come back. I had her paperwork done by then.” “All that to be a waiter?” I asked. “It’s not rocket science.” Ovidiu leaned back again. He casually blew his smoke into the air, then looked me in the eye. “You have no idea what you’re getting into, do you?” The London Book Festival awards ceremony will be held Jan. 24th in London. Until then, the most popular formats of Unsinkable Mister Brown will be 50% off. See my website for details at http://brev.is/mS94

If your ship sinks and you’re stranded, without food or water, with only an open boat and your own resources, can you stay alive? Sure! This was proven in rather dramatic fashion by Frenchman Alain Bombard, who believed people could survive such trials. On October, 19, 1953 he voluntarily set off from the Canary Islands to cross the Atlantic in a 15 foot rubber boat. He intended to make it to the West Indies. Not a scrap of food. Not a drop of water. Just his clothes and an inflatable cushion. Bombard believed that shipwreck survivors died drinking seawater simply because they waited too long to do so. From the time he set off, he drank 1.5 pints (.71 liters) of seawater every day. He supplemented this with water squeezed from fish caught with a makeshift harpoon. Gross? Yes. But not as bad as the raw plankton he swallowed. He would trail a cloth through the sea to capture the microscopic organisms, figuring if they could keep a whale alive, then he’d have no problem. Unlike a whale, which can gobble zillions of the stuff with one big mouthful, he struggled to get one or two teaspoons of it a day. After twenty days of this self-induced torture, he broke out in a painful rash. But he wasn’t dead. Not that the sea didn’t try. A storm within days of setting out nearly wrecked his little rubber boat. His sail ripped and the spare was blown away entirely. More distressing still was what else it blew away: his inflatable cushion. Knowing he could live without food and water, but not without a comfortable posterior, Bombard secured his craft with a sea anchor and jumped overboard after it. While he was diving, he discovered to his horror that the sea anchor was not working. This parachute-like device was tied to the boat and left to drag in the ocean, thus keeping the craft nearby. Without it, the current was sweeping the boat hopelessly out of reach. Luckily the sea anchor fixed itself—it had been caught in its own mooring line—and he was able to haul himself back aboard. Strangely, whether he retrieved the cushion or not was never revealed. Weeks passed, but Alain Bombard did not die. He survived off of seawater, plankton, and whatever raw fish he could catch at the surface. On day 53 he hailed a passing ship to ask his position. Sadly, he had another 600 miles to go before reaching his intended destination. He seriously considered giving up, for had he not already vindicated his supposition that man could survive on sea water? After a meal on the ship, his spirits were revived, however, and he voluntarily returned to his little rubber boat. On Christmas Eve he reached Barbados, having sailed more than 2,750 miles (4425 kilometers) in 65 days. He lost 56 pounds (25 kilograms), but was otherwise fine. And that was in an open boat with nothing. If your cruise ship goes down and you’re in a life raft, it has a roof. That makes a huge difference. Also, life rafts are equipped with emergency rations of food and water, and even fishing kits. Most importantly of all, however, is that modern life rafts have radio transponders. You won’t have to wait months. Probably not even days. The moral of the story? If your ship goes down, don’t panic. Be awesome. You absolutely have it in you. It's just gonna taste really bad. By Brian David Bruns, author of national best-seller Cruise Confidential. Pics of the people and places I blog about are on my website and FB pages, join me! www.BrianDavidBruns.com https://www.facebook.com/BrianDavidBruns

Working midnight buffet, I sensed something was wrong. Ketchup bottles slid to port. All of them, in unison. Any sharp turn was amplified up here on deck 14, but Conquest continued to list further… further…. Silverware bundles tumbled off tables. Then plates. The ship keeled more. Waiters were ordered to the dish room to manually hold up stacks of plates and saucers. Glasses were deemed safe in their washing racks. But it was too late. Sharp crashes cried entire stacks of plates were gone… one… three… a cascade. And Conquest kept listing. Simultaneously two dozen ketchup bottles exploded on the tiles. Plates in hundreds shattered everywhere. I tripped over a plastic pitcher crushed open on the floor. In a flash the cream inside streaked fifty feet across the deck. Now I had to hold onto something to avoid falling myself. Then she righted. The chaos audibly lessened, but only for a moment. Conquest righted abruptly: too abruptly. Experienced crew members knew what that meant and abandoned property in favor of protecting themselves. I gripped the buffet as the floor tried to dump me starboard. The cream was still very much alive, a shocking white lightning bolt zigzagging into the dark. Watching the fluid move so violently made me realize there was something much greater to worry about. A waiter was stationed by the pool. I scrambled over the slanting deck to the stern with great difficulty; to the pizza station, the grill, the pool. A gaping, empty hole was the pool, for all water had already pushed out to sweep across the restaurant before draining en masse to the deck below. The unsecured tables were piled high in a corner, entangled and dripping, legs worked together like the roots of a mangrove. Perched atop and soaked to the skin was a smiling Indonesian waiter. A close call, but everyone was all right. What had happened? Conquest had nearly collided with an errant barge while entering the busy mouth of the Mississippi River. A late-night sinking in the vast, black wastes of the ocean, a la Titanic, it was not. But was being ten miles from the unlit, swampy, forested bayou really any better? Because the water was not one degree above freezing didn’t mean a better chance at survival, it meant you’d linger… terrified… struggling… until exhaustion took you down, down to the dark depths. So should you be scared of ships hitting each other? No. How many big ship collisions have their been in the last century? In the modern cruising era, only the Andrea Doria—and that was in 1956. In a foggy night near Nantucket she was struck broadside by the MS Stockholm. The Andrea Doria listed so badly that half her lifeboats were unusable. Despite this, her modern ship design was so efficient she remained afloat for eleven hours, allowing all survivors to be safely evacuated. That’s less miracle and more engineering. Miraculous was Linda Morgan. The teenager was sleeping in her cabin with her half-sister when the ships struck. The blow somehow lifted her into the bow of the Stockholm and deposited her safely behind a bulkhead as the ships scraped along each other through the fog. Later, she was found wandering around asking for her mother in her native Spanish, much to the astonishment of the Swedish-speaking crew. Her sister was not so lucky, nor were 45 others directly struck by the collision. But nowadays ships have even more safety features, including zillions of inflatable life rafts that deploy automatically. They don’t need electronics, just physics. They can’t go wrong. Neither can you, if you stay calm. So enjoy your cruise! By Brian David Bruns, author of national best-seller Cruise Confidential. Pics of the people and places I blog about are on my website and FB pages, join me! www.BrianDavidBruns.com https://www.facebook.com/BrianDavidBruns

One would think that having my own, personal cabin would protect me from unwelcome surprises due to strangers. One would be wrong. First sight of my cabin on Sensation was a doozy. It was an interior guest cabin with beds against two different walls. The room reeked of fish. “What’s with the separate bunks?” I asked my departing counterpart, Robin. “Aren’t you here with your girlfriend?” He was about to answer when a very tall, attractive woman entered. She was six feet tall and, while pleasantly slender, still built solid. Her long hair was naturally blonde, but the last six inches were dyed black. She wore a cowboy hat and boots over snug blue jeans. Vanessa was her name. She answered, “He stinks. He belches all night, so I want as much distance as possible.” “You like cod liver oil?” she suddenly asked, prompting me to reply, “You asking me on a date?” She gestured broadly to the room. “We’ve got plenty for ya. I’m sick of ‘em. If I smell one more damned pill, I’m gonna puke. Loverboy here don’t eat no food, jus’ lives off cod liver oil.” A quick glance proved Vanessa wasn’t kidding. I counted no less than four bottles of cod liver pills of varying sizes. A fifth bottle lay on its side on a bunk behind where Robin sat, looking suspiciously as if it had dumped its contents between the cushions. A family-sized jar with a wide mouth was currently open, the smell of heavy fish oil almost visually emanated from it. “Aren’t you supposed to refrigerate those once opened?” I asked in wonder. Robin scoffed, “Bah! You Yanks always worry about stuff like that.” “So’d you tell him yet?” Vanessa asked Robin. He ignored her, but she pressed the question. Robin reacted strongly, and suddenly both were glaring at each other, postures frozen in defiance: she tall and leaning willowy-strong over him, he looking up to meet her with bulldog neck tensed and fists clenched. He finally spat, “Shut up, woman!” Offended, Vanessa snatched up the nearest bottle of fish oil pills—the family-sized jar sans lid—and hurled it at him. Delicate globules of smelly fish oil sprayed wide, bouncing off Robin to clatter off the walls, the desk, the bed and everything else until they found every last corner. Robin snarled, reaching for her. She gamely bounced back, but this was no game. They exchanged all manner of insults, voices rising until she screeched and he bellowed. Finally he muscled his way in to give her a solid slap across the face. The sound was shockingly loud. Violence in person is completely unlike anything in the movies. It was immediate, intimate, horrible. “Oh!” she cried in surprise, hair flinging wild. I leapt in between the two of them, now shouting myself. I had no idea what was going on, even as I sensed this was not an unusual occurrence between them. Indeed, before I could interfere they both whirled upon me as one. “This is none of your business, Yank!” Robin bellowed. “I can handle this myself!” Vanessa echoed. She was already returning her attention to her adversary, adding, “I’m from Texas!” Vanessa delivered a tremendous blow of her own, a wallop that sent Robin reeling. Before he had a chance to recover, she shoved him onto the bed. Next came a sharp crack of head hitting the bulkhead, and Robin collapsed. He gave a low moan, and Vanessa was atop him. Then they began madly kissing, passionately rolling across the tiny bunk… and grinding cod liver pills into my future mattress. Excerpted from Ship for Brains [Cruise Confidential, Book 2] by Brian David Bruns (World Waters, 2011)

I stumbled onto this blog by “Crewbar Queen,” begun on two separate sites several years ago. She obviously held a staff position, based on the ease of her entry into ships. She didn’t see it that way. Her words, filled with anxiety and confusion, moved me. All crew can relate to her every word. Below is her only post. “It’s Sunday and I joined the ship today. I am already exhausted. I look around as I type this, staring at the four walls of this closet size cabin with four beds in it. Soon my roommates will be off work so I am glad I was able to shower before they get back. One bathroom, four beds, one tv, one other Canadian, a Filipino Girl and a Romanian. I can't remember their names yet. The Romanian girl seemed stuck up as hell. In fact, so did most of the Romanian girls I met today. “I wonder what I am doing here. From the second I stepped onboard today, I have been pulled in every direction, fitted for an ugly red uniform, thrown into a boring three hour safety class which pretty much has me fearing a Titanic-like experience now, and I have been lost three times. “I am starting work tomorrow. I will just stand alongside some girl who seems to struggle with the English language, and learn as I go. 2000 guests got off the ship today and another 2000 got on. I am feeling a little overwhelmed at the amount of knowledge I need to have. Everyone here seems so intense. The Safety Manager flipped out on me and this other Canadian girl when we were late for class today. He actually threatened to send us back home before we left port. I never realized I would need to know how many lifeboats a ship carries, or how to evacuate the passengers. Isn't there a captain and some sort of safety squad for that?? “I kind of miss home. I packed my life into cardboard boxes in less than a week and left every comfort zone I was sheltered by. The small voice inside of me that I normally ignore finally spoke loud enough to get me here, and now it's still trying to talk me through it. This is supposed to be a chance to see the world and an opportunity to grow. “Later - My roommates are back and I am sitting in bed. The Romanian girl’s name is Alina. She hardly said two words to me when she got here, but she sure is full of conversation for this guy in her bed now. All I can hear is her giggling and his deep Caribbean accent. I guess he's her boyfriend. I didn't realize we could fit another body into this cabin. Wait...is she really....what the f@#$, they are screwing! “Does she not realize two other people are in this room? Does she seriously think this curtain that closes around each bunk is sound proof?? I open my curtain and look across at the bunk next to me where the Filipino girl, Carmella, is sitting. I look at her as if to say, "is this really happening?". She smiles obliviously and keeps staring at the TV, slurping her instant noodles. Clearly, this is something she is used to. I'm logging off for the night. I'm not to used to falling asleep to live porn, I think I'll pop in some of these ear plugs they gave us to drown out the sound of the engine and try to get some sleep.” By Brian David Bruns, author of national best-seller Cruise Confidential. Pics of the people and places I blog about are on my website and FB pages, join me! www.BrianDavidBruns.com https://www.facebook.com/BrianDavidBruns

The anatomy of a conch is a curious and unnerving thing. “Yeah, mon,” said the Bahamian in the conch shack by the sea. “Take da skin and eyes right off, den trow dem in da water. Dey live by demselves for two more days.” My friend Laureen leaned over the counter to get a better look. In Donny’s hands was a large conch shell and a knife. “No, uh, gills or organs or anything?” I asked. “Just the skin? Living?” Donny demonstrated. Experienced fingers pulled from the shell a floppy, purplish alien-slug-thing. Using his knife, he expertly cut something slimy off of something else slimy—conch skin and eyes from conch body, presumably—then tossed it over his shoulder. Through the open rear of the shack it flew, to plop back into the Caribbean Sea. Donny was a thick man of middle years. The majority of his hair was going grey, and the majority of his teeth were going away. He and his wife, Monique, were proprietors of The Burning Spot, one of a long row of conch shacks lining a pier nestled beneath the huge bridge leading to Paradise Island. The Burning Spot was the size of a garden shed, though the entire back was open to the sea. From the ceiling dangled all sorts of oddities mixed in with daily use items. Funky ornaments made of seashells swung in the breeze, bumping into grill brushes and spatter guards. The front wall of the shack folded into a counter, over which Laureen and I draped ourselves, beside a pile of conch shells strung together and heaped several feet high. As we watched Donny continue to intimately manipulate the conch, I pressed into the stack of conch shells. “Gaaaaah!” I suddenly bellowed, stumbling backwards. Laureen teased me with a voice usually reserved for small children, “Was it all slimy and icky, Bri Bri?” “I-I just got tentacled!” I protested. “These things are still alive!” Donny and Monique laughed hysterically. Monique buried her face into his broad shoulder, overcome with mirth. “If their skin can stay alive for two days,” Laureen observed, poking me “Whatcha think a whole one can do?” I muttered, “I thought they were just shells. For decoration.” “Decoration’s over dere, mon,” Donny said, gesturing above him with his dripping knife. In the sheltered corner hung an old and tired pom pom, heavy and limp, some strands stuck to a cast iron pan. There was obviously a story there, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear it. Watching Donny laugh maniacally holding a sharp knife in one hand, and a slain alien in the other, brought to mind all sorts of B-rated horror movie imagery. “Donny catch dem every mornin’,” Monique said, to which I quipped, “Cheerleaders?” Monique laughed heartily, revealing huge, brilliant teeth. “He wish! He jump right off de back here sunup. Dey come to de pier every day, like de ships.” Donny’s continuing work freaked me out. From the bodies of the conchs he pulled weird, half toothpick-sized slivers of what looked like gelatin. Each such find brought delight, and he promptly popped them in his mouth. He loved ‘em. I didn’t have the stomach to ask if they were conch anatomy or parasites. Yet despite the grisly performance, the results were worthy. We took our bowls of chilled conch salad to a crooked wooden table in front of the shack, and readily devoured the contents. The minutes-fresh meat was firm and bright. Mixed in were chopped tomatoes, onions, and peppers, the whole doused in copious amounts of freshly squeezed lime juice, then a pinch of salt and pepper. The conch salad was delicious. *excerpted from Unsinkable Mister Brown, by Brian David Bruns. PARIS BOOK FESTIVAL WINNER: SILVER Available everywhere books are sold.

Few things bring out fear, prejudice, and ethnocentrism more completely than medical care on cruise ships. We’re all subject to a bit of this. After all, when ill, who doesn’t prefer mom’s chicken soup over an injection, regardless of how credentialed the medical professional may be? Alas, mom’s not on the cruise, so we have to rely on the ship’s medical staff. But is he/she credentialed? Yes. Is he/she what you are used to at home? No. Does it matter? Probably not. First, the scare-tactics: an oft-cited paper by Consumer Affairs in 2002 found medical facilities on ships lacking. They were quite harsh without actually providing much data. For example, they claimed a survey conducted by the American Medical Association found 27% of ship doctors and nurses did not have ‘advanced training’ in treating heart attacks. They did not define ‘advanced training,’ so even a gastroenterologist serving a stint at sea could easily be considered unqualified. Yet these ‘severely lacking’ individuals, as the article called them, have a success rate that puts U.S. hospitals to shame. Indeed, losing merely .000004% of such patients are odds I’ll take any day! Those are numbers cited in that very same article, by the way. The language was damning. The numbers were not. Ship doctors rarely see passengers for anything beyond dehydration or stomach ache. The overwhelming majority of medical issues you’ll have on a cruise will be what you brought with you: heart attacks being most common. Time is the most important issue in treating heart attack, not size of the facility. Still not convinced? Consider: “living on a cruise ship provides a better quality of life and is cost effective for elderly people who need help to live independently”, according to a study published in the Journal of the American Geriatrics Society (2004). Many elderly, high-risk folks hop from ship to ship, more than satisfied with ship facilities and personnel. A brilliant article from CNN Health explains much of ship doctor training: http://brev.is/pzt3 I’ve met many a cruise ship nurse and doctor. More than a few are American surgeons and nurse practitioners that have taken tours as ship medical personnel for a change of pace. But most ship doctors are not licensed in the U.S. That doesn’t mean they haven’t been licensed professionals for a great many years back home. That home may be from Europe, for example, or Africa. This is where ethnocentrism rears its ugly head. Whispers of witch doctors. I’ve read online complaints (generally from my fellow Americans) of “some African doctor identifying my wife’s ailment as caused by her sins and prescribing a bath in the blood of Jesus Christ.” I find this as plausible as reports of Elvis sightings. Ultimately, cruise lines are not required to provide medical care at all. You are placing yourself under the perceived protection of a corporation; corporations that intentionally pay taxes in one country, register ships in another, hire employees from many, take passengers from yet more, then sail where there are no laws at all. If you have an underlying medical condition or concern, it behooves you to take responsibility for your own care by research and preparation. As ships often mention, their medical facilities are the equivalent of a small town. If a medical emergency emerges beyond the abilities of the ship, you will be helicoptered off to the nearest hospital. If that’s not in the U.S., so be it. If you are that terrified of the rest of the world’s standards, then don’t leave home. By Brian David Bruns, author of national best-seller Cruise Confidential. Pics of the people and places I blog about are on my website and FB pages, join me! www.BrianDavidBruns.com https://www.facebook.com/BrianDavidBruns

Halloween is the one glorious night where you are not only free, but encouraged, to embrace that which brings fear and loathing into the hearts and minds of common man. A cross-dressing man fits into that category as snugly as, say, Freddie Kruger or H.R. Giger’s Alien. But sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do. Gathering a Halloween costume of any kind while sailing the Mediterranean is no small task, but even more so on the Wind Surf. Though the world’s largest sailing ship, she was still small enough to fit into as many old world ports as you can imagine. Thus we were in port seven days a week, frequently in seven different nations. Cobbling together a unified costume from bits and pieces obtained in Morocco, Spain, France, Monaco, Malta, Tunisia, Italy, Croatia, and Greece is not easy—especially when none of those countries celebrate the American holiday. Regardless, a Halloween crew party was announced, and nothing brings a shiver down my spine more than the thought of missing a crew party. But what to be, and how? There were no superstores loaded with costumes, nor seasonal businesses in strip malls. Solutions always present themselves, however, and in my case it was in the form of… well, getting into women’s pants. While I admit to constantly thinking about getting into women’s pants, that rarely means actually donning them. But this is just what was suggested one evening when brainstorming with a friend from the spa. “I have nothing to wear,” I lamented to Natalie, echoing women everywhere and from all times. Natalie noted this. “You sound just like my cabin mate,” she said. “Claudia whined about not having a dress for formal night, so I offered her one of mine.” I laughed, while she chortled in her wine. Natalie was six foot two inches tall, a full foot taller than Claudia. “You would fit better into one of my dresses,” Natalie continued. An idea was born. So I borrowed a slim black dress from the Australian giantess and next port, Toulon, France, I found a wig shop. I opted for dirty blonde. Shoes were hopeless for my size twelve and a half feet (we weren’t in Vegas, after all), but accessories were hurled upon me by the entire spa staff. After great deliberation by the spa girls doing my makeover, I was ordered to shave my goatee. I complied. Then came the order to shave my chest. I did not. Soon enough, however, I was all dolled up and ready for the Halloween party on Wind Surf. When I arrived to the party arm in arm with Natalie, everything came to a screeching halt. Literally: the Italian DJ actually fumbled with his music, horrified. Italian men would rather be hurled into the bowels of Hell than be seen without their machismo. The Asian crew stared, agog, while the usually uptight Brits gave me surprisingly ‘understanding’ nods. Because the Surf was so small, the party only involved a few dozen crew members. Most costumes were improvised. Natalie wrapped herself toga-like in a white sheet and played goddess. Several spa girls borrowed boiler suits and with the help of lacy bras became… well… slutty, grease-smeared engineers. They were very popular, as one could imagine. The Canadian dive instructor grabbed a gondolier outfit in Venice, while the Indonesian (and flamboyantly gay) photographer just pranced around in his underwear. Oh, he also wore skull makeup. By the end of the night, most people were following suit. It was quite a party, as crew parties always are. By Brian David Bruns, author of national best-seller Cruise Confidential. Pics of the people and places I blog about are on my website and FB pages, join me! www.BrianDavidBruns.com https://www.facebook.com/BrianDavidBruns