Watching the cargo removal was a huge lesson in physics, for which we all crowded the rail. The stevedores, big tattooed men, lifted two-ton trucks through the surf without breaking a sweat. A number of older ladies seemed to swoon as it became their turn to be offloaded. Down the exterior gangplank they walked, midships alongside the 350-foot long metal ship, quivering with excitement. You know it was described again and again around bridge tables back home in Cleveland, or Dallas, or wherever.
Life onboard is simple, unstructured and unstressful.
To say that one does not have to dress for dinner, as you would on a fancy cruising ship, is to understate the case. By trip's end, we were barefoot and wearing pareos to the dining room. In point of fact, our captain was an extremely shy man. But he was an accomplished sailor, maneuvering our 15,000-ton craft in and out of coves and bays with the skill of a master. Food, we decided, was more bountiful than it was elegant, although the wine was a selection of very lovely French reds and whites.