“The Lido Shuffle”

September 10, 2025

This morning, after what was advertised as an “American Breakfast” but tasted suspiciously like a British breakfast from which the British chef at the last minute cynically pulled the Blood Sausage, beans and tomato, Cathy and I heard the Irish lilt of our skipper Jonathan Ward come on the intercom.

The Captain calmly summoned the crew to their action stations and shared with us the sad news that a Canadian Coast Guard helicopter was racing west from Vancouver to lift to a hospital a fellow passenger who had suffered a “medical emergency.” 

Cathy and I had planned to inaugurate our walking regiment…FYI: three laps around the Lido deck is one mile…but access to any outside decks, Lido or otherwise, was understandably barred for over an hour. (Note to you word association aficionados, for Cathy, the word “Lido” always makes her think of The Love Boat”, and oddly enough the Cruise Director Julie McCoy. 

I know. Don’t ask.

Me? When I hear the word “Lido” I can’t help but think of Boz Skaggs’ Lido Shuffle. You know…

Lido missed the boat that day he left the shack

But that was all he missed

And he ain’t coming back.

I have my sister to thank for this. She was big on Boz before Boz was big.

Though we couldn’t actually see the landing on the stern deck, we did watch from our balcony as three times the chopper passed by on the port side. Twice with the door open; the last time with the door closed.

Very impressive, these search and rescue folks. They must have ice water in their veins.

No sooner had we heard the sounds of the rotors fade than Cathy received an alert on her phone of an offshore earthquake.

Epicenter, I asked?

On the south end of the Straights of Juan de Fuca.  

Wait, where did you say?  

We’re on the southern end of Juan de Fuca!

Great. So we decided to head up top and help the crew with the tsunami watch. (Hey, we saw Poseidon Adventure; we know how this works.) 

So, up to the 10^th deck we climbed. Actually, rode. 

No sooner did the elevator doors part than we heard the Captain over the loudspeaker cautioning those passengers foolish enough to venture outside on the upper decks to brace for inclement weather. Apparently it was a bit breezy as (1) the wind was blowing from the North at 35 knots, and (2) he had ordered his fellow Irishmen in the boiler room to punch Ol’ Lizzie  to 20 knots to make up for time lost in the helicopter exchange.

What’s a little wind, hey? We prepped for this. Let’s do it. 

You know how some refer to wind and cold as “bracing.” Now I know why. Note how I am holding onto the railing to stay upright. Note how Cathy needed no hands.

I asked my AI buddy Claude did the captain’s math mean what I thought it meant. He said, “Yep, Rob; something about “apparent” wind. The combination not only totals 55mph but, for reasons I didn’t ask Clause, feels like 63 mph. 

That’s almost the equivalent of gale force conditions.

Go inside? Hell no.  We headed to the highest point we could find, a telescope on the 12^th deck.

Cathy’s approach was a bit different from mine.  She again went with no hands. I looked for tsunamis and pirates.

A salad for lunch and it was time to visit the spa. This too did not go as expected.

First, our written instructions told us to arrive nakey in our nifty Cunard robes. Okaaay.

We Jacksons tend toward your modest side and I was a bit nervous about traipsing through the casino nakey beneath a terrycloth karate gi that was two sizes too small. Seemed  fraught with peril. It was windy out there. What if I caught a draft from an open door?

Think Rob, think. You were a Boy Scout. At least a Tenderfoot. How do you tie a square knot. Right over left and up; left over right? Does it matter? This is no time for a granny knot.

And make sure you fly in with the flaps on that robe secured in place. Not so much for you, but the safety of the other passengers. 

After tying and retying the white belt on my kimono, slipping into my nifty tai chi shoes, and plotting an approach to the spa with the least chance of encountering others, we slipped into what we thought was an empty elevator.

It wasn’t.

You know that awkward feeling when you are standing facing the door in an elevator, your back to the others, wondering what they might be thinking about you.  Yeah? Well, try it in an  undersized Hugh Hefner robe.

Thanks to Cathy, we made it. But then we were handed a three page disclaimer form that the crack crew in the spa had printed in small feint print with an inkjet low on ink. Without our glasses, which we didn’t think to include in our matching jammies, neither of us could make out what the damn thing said.

Ever the resourceful one, Cathy took out her iPhone, took a photo of the form, and using her fingers expanded and enhanced the contrast of the image so we could read the fine print.  She then walked me through it. Things like rate your level of stress by circling the number on this list from zero to ten. Cathy circled a “2”.  I put down a 6, then changed my mind and opted to circle the entire number line. This might not have been helpful.

Next question?  Locate and mark with an “x” on this diagram the parts of your body where you are experiencing discomfort or would like extra attention.

Extra attention? I don’t want any attention. I can’t even see the damn diagram. Is that a head, Cath? And that? What’s that?

But wait. There’s more.

The two young ladies brief Cathy and me. I’m directed toward the far table; Cathy the near. They excuse themselves and we are to shed our robes, lie face down with our face in this hole. I keep asking Cathy if my sheet makes me look fat and is she’s sure I’ve pulled it up properly to cover my butt.

Our middle eastern variations on Helga and Inga returned and Cathy asked if they might play some soothing spa music. This is apparently customary. The two, whose English is not altogether reliable and appear new to the job, maybe new to the profession, at first seem bewildered and then, understanding Cathy’s request, punched up on the playlist a series of Spotify channels that were anything but soothing. Finally, they settle on what sounded like a Turkish Ricky Martin belting out  Livin’ La Vida Voca. 

Let’s just say this did not have the desired effect Cathy planned. It was all she could do to politely communicate, in a voice only I know not to be as pleasant as it sounded, “let’s just turn it off.”

I can’t speak for Cathy as my head was buried in the hole the whole time, but speaking for myself it was an unfortunate time for my restless leg syndrome to kick in.  Literally. I mean kick in. My left leg spasmed throughout the 75 minutes like it was hooked up to electrodes and, rather than drift off into blissful slumber, as I could tell Cathy had by the sound of her breathing, I spent the whole time trying to keep my embarrassing left leg from throwing off my blank.

I’m not sure, but I don’t think the mindset a massage is intended to achieve is, “Whew…I survived.”

But I did. And the next stop for we survival-of-the-not-so-fit was prom night at the White Gala.

Probably best to skip over the preliminaries. Let’s just say that my Parky fingers are not the best at working the microscopic clasp on a lady’s necklace or poking the studs through button holes on a rented tuxedo shirt.

But we made it, fashionably late and all eyes were understandably and thankfully on Cathy.

Me? I just enjoyed the view and thought what a lucky man I am.