So here's an essay I threw together for one of my travel classes. It's a few of my favorite honeymoon stories. It needs some work, and has some problems with tenses and whatnot, but it was good enough to get an A-. Good enough for me and good enough for xanga!
I wrote a few other papers about my hometown and my family that I'll put on here eventually.
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As most little girls do, I imagined my honeymoon would be the most fantastic, romantic, and magical experience of my life. I think back on the experience now, and in many ways, it fit that description. Impeccably clear Caribbean water, shimmering ivory beaches, and a majestic cruise ship sound just right. However, when I dreamt up those childhood visions, I never imagined my brand new, ever-faithful husband struggling to drag me across that pristine sand in a humongous beach wheelchair fitted with gigantic, inflatable lemon yellow wheels. I certainly never envisioned stunned beach-goers trying to decide whether to stifle their laughter or offer the poor man some help. But nevertheless, I ended up with the fantasy honeymoon I’d always wanted. Eventually.
…
A few days earlier I was feverishly tying up last minute wedding plans before heading to the ceremony. All the stress had decided to make itself known by camping out on my face. As I sat motionless in a plush vanity chair, the make-up artist just kept sighing and shaking her head. I hadn’t heard “bless your heart” so many times since my grandma’s last visit. I knew as well as any southerner that you could say horribly offensive things about anyone as long as you follow it with “bless her heart!” She globbed more and more of the thick, tan-colored liquid on my face and I prayed my photographer wouldn't charge extra for photo retouching. I glanced in the mirror as she finished and realized, a little too late, that I was wearing one of my sweet fiancé’s favorite tee shirts. Whoops. That was going to have to be cut off later, as my hair was already perfectly styled and perched on top of my head. He barely winced at the news. I imagine by that point he wouldn’t find anything too upsetting, especially if it involved me taking clothes off. We had been engaged for 15 months, but for a faithful Latter-day Saint couple, it had seemed like an eternity.
We were married in an LDS temple that Thursday morning, which was absolutely perfect and simply divine. We made it through the ring ceremony without any major disasters, and rushed through the reception with only a few forgotten flowers, some miffed relatives, and a random burst of torrential rain. Rain on the wedding day is good luck right?
For the wedding night we rented a quaint bed and breakfast forty miles north of our town in Raleigh. We were lucky enough to have the entire house to ourselves without even a caretaker to bother us. I’m not sure who would leave the keys of a historic home to two 20-year-olds, but we were immensely grateful. When we finally got my wheelchair and I up the stairs to the master suite, I noticed the chilled bottle of fancy champagne on the nightstand and guessed the B&B owners weren’t quite fully aware of our age. I wish I had been able to see their faces the next morning when they caught the sight of our leftover Mountain Dew rippling in their exquisite crystal flutes.
Like most wedding nights, it was quite eventful, but I still think ours was a little steamier than most. Extremely flammable hair products combined with a few too many candles lead to some briefly alarming complications. Somewhat miraculously, we made it out alive and with only a few singed curls. We woke up late, of course, and rushed to the airport. The independence was immediate. There were no parents around to give orders or instructions, no opinionated siblings or quarreling relatives. We were free! I even paid my own money to get on the Internet at the airport, and bathed in the luxury of checking my email for a ludicrously large amount of money. No need to ask for permission. Sure, I’d had jobs and my own little liberties while in college, but this felt monumental. Permanent.
The flight was smooth and I slept through most of it. Florida was unusually cloudy and gloomy, but little Mickey Mouse footprints merrily marked the path to the Disney Cruise Line busses. That was Disney magic at it’s finest, and it brightened my mood until it was time to get on the bus. I pretended not to be tremendously embarrassed as they used the squeakiest lift available to get me in the bus first while all the other passengers stared at me with arms folded and tapping toes. I looked the other way. Jeremy seemed oblivious to all of it. He had been in an exceptionally good mood all morning, and it would take more than rain and huffy tourists to get him down.
After a 40-minute bus ride we arrived at the ship and it did not disappoint. I was simply amazed that such a gigantic vessel was able to speed its way through the waves to far away islands and coasts. Our floating home for the next week was a not only Disney fan’s dream, but a historian’s treasure as well. Graceful and classic, it minimized the cartoonish fantasy that one might expect. The Magic is reminiscent of the ocean liner glory days with large smokestacks towering over the wide deck and small Mickey Mouse emblems on the side. Only one stack is mechanically necessary and the other holds a posh club for teens. Classic shades of black, yellow, and red are painted on the ship’s massive exterior almost daily so that the ship always looks fresh and new. The ship was designed with an art deco style, and the presence of Disney characters is extremely understated. The only other visible Disney image was a small statue of Goofy, hanging off the stern and enthusiastically painting bright decorative filigree on the dark metal. It was a striking contrast against the jumble of other ships. They were all white with hard angles and strived to be ultra modern, but ultimately paled in comparison.
We practically flew through the drizzling rain to the loading terminal and got checked in. Finally we were boarding the ship, and our real honeymoon began.
Day One
“Let’s all welcome the Swafford family! It’s their first cruise and they’re on their honeymoon!” The crowd cheered down from the ornate balconies and I immediately channeled my inner 10-year-old girl. I pulled my husband down to my level to squeal in his ear, “Jeremy! They know our name! They know us! This is magical.” After a moment all the cheering died down and I reluctantly let my husband drag me away from the entryway as I waved at all the smiling faces around us. We took a minute to figure out what floor we were on, and I was giddy at the prospect of riding up one of the four transparent elevators. A tiny gloved hand pointed out the floors as we rode higher and higher. At the very end of a ridiculously long hallway our room was at the very back end of the boat on the sixth deck. The decorations were modest, yet elegant. The art deco flavor was visible and flowing through every aspect of our room. There was a small bronze clock in the shape of a nautical propeller sitting on the nightstand. I noticed a card nearby that cheerfully noted you could buy one just like it in the gift shop, or if you’d rather just stick it in your luggage they will happily charge 34.99 to your onboard account.
The room was large and spacious, with a king size bed and a large couch that folded out into a queen. A mysterious door in the ceiling was actually another twin size bed that pulled out if needed. The linens were classy and pulled mildly from a nautical inspiration. There was a closet and a bathroom that must have been the largest on the boat. An oddly empty second closet with no racks or hooks sat in the corner. We named it the time-out room. The bathroom had a tub, plenty of floor space for a wheelchair or two, and a separate roll in shower. It was perfect. The toilet looked a little strange, and I cautiously pressed the large silver button in the wall. Jumping back as it roared to life, it was the loudest, most powerful toilet I had ever encountered. A little too excitedly, I gushed, “That’s niiiiice!”
Unbeknownst to me, Jeremy was videotaping both the flushing and the enraptured response that I cried out over the commotion. I’m so glad that since we only made 15 minutes of footage on the entire trip, that specific incident can never be forgotten or downplayed.
Astonishing toilets aside, the most impressive feature of the room was outside the sliding glass doors. The verandah was even larger than our room. Most balconies on the ship can barely squeeze two plastic chairs but ours could have hosted a dance party for 30 guests. There was a full table surrounded by four chairs and another four reclining deck chairs. There was a ton of floor space and upon further inspection from various ports we realized we indeed had the largest balcony on the boat by far. Because our room was wheelchair accessible and on the very end of the boat, it wrapped from the starboard edge of the boat, all the way to the edge at the center of the stern, where a large staircase sat on the interior. This made it the grandest private outdoor space available. It was a spectacular surprise and something we took advantage of often. I half-heartedly wondered if it were possible to have room service deliver a hot tub.
We stayed on the balcony in the drizzling mist until the booming horn blasted the first line of “When You Wish Upon A Star” from Pinocchio. There was cheering and music blaring on the main deck above us, and the terminal workers waved enthusiastically from the dock. With my terrible eyesight, all I could make out were the adorably huge Mickey Mouse gloves they wore on their hands flapping back and forth. We were off!
If you’ve ever been on a cruise, you know that the emergency drills are always an interesting experience, and they didn’t waste time getting ours out of the way. We quickly donned our unflattering life jackets and Jeremy amusedly commented that I looked like a rolling orange road cone. After finding our group’s meeting spot we waited around in the sea of tangerine plastic until everyone got settled. I have a terrible habit of worrying and preparing myself for my own demise, so as they gave instructions, I carefully took notes in my phone. Put jacket tab on left side. Go down the hallway and out the starboard door. Group leader James will give instructions. People in wheelchairs will NOT be left on sinking boat.
I may have asked too many questions.
Shortly after putting our life jackets away, we had our first real taste of cruise food. Cruisers and Travel Channel specials always go on and on about the food and they are not exaggerating. We waited in line for a few minutes while cast members passed out antibacterial wet wipes. Hand washing was a strict requirement and I loved that. It really helped quell my anxieties about a plague wiping out half the passengers. And just in case you forgot how to wash your hands, Brawny, the paper-towel sponsor, had supplied little hand-washing tips above every single sink on the ship. They gave rather menial advice and ended with a dire warning, “Don’t forget to rinse and dry your hands!” Thanks Brawny. Sometimes I forget that part and just rush out the door with soapy, foamy hands.
With hands cleansed, Jeremy pushed me to our table. (I was reluctant to touch my dirty, un-sanitized wheels after deliberately removing so many germs.) We met our wait staff and after that I only remember pure joy and a satisfied, full belly. The meals were as entertaining as the theater shows and I don’t often admit the fact that I ate five courses at every sitting. We had two waiters that followed us to each restaurant assignment for dinner and by the third night they already knew how I liked my salad, my steak, my baked potato, and my soda of choice. I had filet mignon almost every night, and at least one dessert. The recurring problem was that the variety of bread they initially brought out was so good that I was practically full by the time my entrée arrived. Ah, the struggles of cruising.
There were three main restaurants on the ship, each beautifully themed. Lumiere’s was my favorite, with a classy French theme inspired by Beauty and the Beast. Parrot’s Cay was a Bahamian paradise, complete with live Caribbean music, and Animator’s Palette was a whimsical Disney experience. Here you started your meal in a black and white room, but by the end of dinner you were surrounded with stunning full color renderings of classic Disney animation. Even the waiter’s costumes changed from black and white to brilliant tropical hues.
That night we explored the ship a little, took a few dozen goofy pictures, and ended up at the very front of the top deck. The wind whipped my hair all over and we have some great photos of me resembling Chewbacca’s cousin. We watched the sun go down and marveled at how surreal the whole experience felt. It was a little cloudy, with streaks of coral and salmon sky woven in between the fluffy heavens. I could feel all the wedding stress fading away into the ripples of the white, churning ocean stretching forever in all directions.
Day Two
BOOM! KER-LUNK-LUNK… BOOM! KER-LUNK-LUNK…BAM! Chink, chink, chink…
I shot up in bed at 7:45 on Sunday morning, paranoid and terrified. Jeremy jumped out of bed and ran half-naked out to the balcony. I began frantically throwing blankets everywhere in an effort to get to my wheelchair for a hasty escape.
“Are we sinking?! Are people jumping overboard yet?!” I began searching for my clothes and struggling to remember where we were supposed to meet. Thank goodness I took notes! I was going to be first to the lifeboats. Ah-ha suckers!
Jeremy called out from the balcony, “Uh, no. We’re actually at Castaway Cay, I think. We must be docking.” Jeremy wasn’t nearly as panicky as I was, but obviously he agreed that wasn’t a sound you want to hear while in the middle of the ocean. His swift jog outside was proof.
“Are you sure? You don’t see anyone swimming for the beach? No pirates launching cannons?” I collapsed back in bed, trying to pretend I wasn’t that worried in the first place.
“Nope, although I do see… a pirate ship?”
“Huh?”
I pulled on a shirt and rolled out to the deck. Sure enough, there was a fierce pirate ship sitting in the most gorgeous water I’d ever seen. I covered my eyes and peeked out in small doses to save my eyeballs from the most intense sunlight I’d ever experienced. The ship seemed oddly familiar, and far more ornate than any real boat I’d ever encountered
Then it clicked. “It’s The Flying Dutchman! From Pirates of the Caribbean!”
It was like we had docked in Neverland. It seemed like a fantasy land from a movie, and not only because of the ship. The water was so clear that I could see to the bottom and I spied a few more Disney treasures waiting for snorkelers in the sand. The sky and waves were so blue and clean it looked like it must have been a painting, not a naturally occurring environment. The sand was blindingly white, speckled with brightly colored umbrellas and reflecting the sun. Palm trees, my favorite, were clustered in little groups and were so perfectly shaped and green that they looked fake.
I carefully scooted to the edge of my seat and peered over the railing. A dozen crewmembers scurried along the dock throwing ropes and chains everywhere. Ahh, so the horrible noise was not an impending disaster, just the huge rear anchor being lowered. They should really have a sign in the rooms at the back of the boat that read something like: “Do not fear for you life if you hear terrifying scraping noises. The boat is not being ripped in half Titanic-style, you’re just sleeping next to an anchor with the approximate weight and noise of four rowdy elephants.”
Castaway Cay is Disney’s private island, and by far my most memorable part of the trip. It sits in the middle of the Caribbean, and is exclusively available to Disney Cruise Line passengers. Formerly known as Gorda Cay, it was once a stop for drug runners, complete with its own airstrip. Talk about an un-Disney kind of place! But Disney did buy it back in 1996, and gave it a Cinderella-esque makeover. They spent over twenty-five million dollars renovating it. It took 18 months to dredge up fifty thousand truckloads of sand from the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, create a pier for the ship to dock to, and build power and sewer facilities to serve the island’s restaurant, shops, and bathrooms. Forty people live on the island to clean and maintain it, but all other visitors come from the ships. The two Disney ships bring all the supplies, and also take all the trash away. It’s an impressive system.
While getting dressed for our day on the island, we realized that in our wedding rush of packing, we had forgotten swimsuits. Yes, we packed for a cruise and forgot swimsuits! I wasn’t interested in spending a ridiculous amount of money on a poorly fitting swimsuit from the gift shop, so I fashioned my own beach outfit out of a tank top and pajama pants. Jeremy put together an equally bizarre ensemble and we made our way up to breakfast at the Top Sail buffet, ridiculous outfits be darned.
The Top Sail sits high above the water and offers splendid views through giant windows. The staff was fantastic, and plenty of cast members offered to hold my plate or fetch random breakfast items and condiments. There were so many food choices that it was hard to make any sort of practical decision. I grabbed whatever looked good and traipsed back to the table Jeremy had grabbed outside by the ship’s railing, banging into chairs and other tables all along the way.
“Starting the family food storage early?” My new husband grinned and raised his eyebrows at my plate.
“Expecting this to be your last meal?” I pointed at the tower of muffins, buttered toast and jellied biscuits stacked precariously on his dish. “At least I made some healthy choices. If you eat like that the whole trip it really may be your last meal. I bet all those carbs will go straight to your thighs.”
“Oh no! Not my thighs!” He did his best impression of my voice and put a graceless hand over his forehead in the most feminine way he could manage.
Neither of us was able to finish our plates. Not wanting to be cliché and wasteful cruise passengers, we got some doggie bags for the leftover muffins and fruit that would be useful on the island. I made a mental note to only put half of what I wanted on my plate next time.
We made it out to the island around noon, just in time for our jet-ski tour around the island. As Jeremy was about to help me on to our shared watercraft, the crew stopped him, saying I wouldn’t be allowed to go unless I could climb on the jet ski myself. I didn’t think that was very fair, but they said it was necessary in case I were to fall off in the ocean at some point on the tour. I struggled, more from embarrassment than physically, and rather ungracefully managed to get myself up on the seat. The tour guide seemed to find that acceptable, and Jeremy hopped on. Since he had never driven a jet ski before, and I had practically grown up on them, we decided he would be the captain of our little vessel. (I later regretted that illogical decision but I was trying to be nice to my new eternal companion.)
As all the other tour members loaded we realized our jet ski absolutely refused to start. I groaned and rolled my eyes while my face heated up again. Of course, out of 15 jet skis, mine was the one being difficult. They brought over another one for me to climb and conquer. Waiting for me to climb on to the broken one had put the tour behind schedule, so the rest of the group went ahead while one guide stayed with us. I endeavored to get from one jet ski to the other, and thankfully found it easier than coming from the water. Nevertheless, my arms and shoulders were exhausted from all my efforts.
The tour guide decided we needed to catch up with the main party as soon as possible, and we sped off…at three times the speed of the others. The tour guide kept motioning with his hand behind him for us to go faster and faster and Jeremy was hooting and hollering with glee. I screamed as close to his ear as I could manage that if we went any faster or hit one more wave the wrong way I was going to make us even more behind by flying off into the clear water like an insect flying off a windshield. I was already physically spent, and I felt my grip on Jeremy’s waist grow weaker and weaker. I hadn’t jet skied since my spinal cord injury, and I hadn’t realized just how much one must use their legs to stay on such a violent vehicle. Without that help, I was one bump away from tumbling right into the waves. I could already imagine Jeremy speeding half a mile away before even realizing that I was missing. I was pretty sure that Disney would not be pleased with this tour guide’s decision to take an inexperienced driver and a paraplegic at break-neck velocities. I knew I wasn’t.
We managed to catch up to the group while they sat on a seasonal sand bar. While I considered diving onto the sand to catch my breath, Jeremy learned about the legally protected vegetation that keeps Caribbean water so perfect. He whispered something about how that ride was “SO AWESOME!” and how we should always try to fall behind on those sorts of things. I told him that no, there would only be a next time if I were driving my own jet ski at my own turtle pace like the good little out-of-shape tourist that I was.
A few hours later I was thrilled to be safely back on land, and agonizing over how sore I was going to be the following morning. Jeremy wanted to check out the adults-only beach, Serenity Bay. Anything with “serene” in it sounded alright to me, so off we went. Checking the map, it was on the north side of the island, and not too far away. We headed that direction, and off-handedly noticed a sign for a shuttle. The beach didn’t look that far, it was a tiny island after all, and the shuttle was nowhere to be seen. So we decided to walk. I was still pretty tired from the jet-ski ride so Jeremy graciously offered to push me all the way. We began walking, and walking, and walking some more. Little did we know, the path we were taking was actually that airstrip I mentioned earlier. We trudged on for almost 40 minutes. Shuttles passed by every ten minutes and several of our shipmates waved and smiled at us. I assume they thought we were just taking a romantic, leisurely stroll. I offered to push myself every once in a while, but Jeremy was playing the manly-knight-in-shining-armor character. Exhausted and out of breath, we finally reached the beach. Jeremy sat on a log by the entrance to take a breather. I peeked through the fancy gate and almost cried when I saw sand stretching out for almost another 75 feet between us and the ocean.
Sand: a wheelchair user’s worst nightmare. Nothing is so impossibly difficult or frustrating as loose, grainy, obnoxious sand. I suggested we admit defeat, flag down the next shuttle and go take a nap in our cabin, but Jeremy was not to be deterred. He spied a huge apparatus made of PVC pipe, some mesh, and large yellow tires. It sat by a happy-looking sign that read:
BEACH WHEELCHAIR
Free convenience to help you have a Magical Day!
I protested everything from its color to its construction to its name. Jeremy persisted and defended every problem I came up with. Not wanting to be the party pooper I reluctantly transferred over the giant tire and into the mesh seat. We quickly realized there was nothing convenient about it. Going downhill on the sand was all fine and well, but the entrance to the beach was more crowded than we liked. Jeremy was a real trooper and pushed me all the way across the incline, and you already know how that went.
Eventually we found our own little piece of real estate on the sand, and bought outrageously overpriced fruity drinks from the Caribbean guy walking up and down the beach. We could have gotten sodas for free, but it was a long trek back to the drink stand and sodas are not nearly as exotic as pink umbrella drinks.
After a long rest under the umbrella, Jeremy started trying to shove me down to the water. I think the worst part about the beach wheelchair was that it was impossible for me to help him with the job. The wheels were out of reach for me and didn’t have handrails anyway. I was lamenting this fact when we made it to the water’s edge. Jeremy let go but the chair just kept going. Apparently the inflatable wheels also served as flotation devices and I began unsteadily floating out to sea. My husband casually took off his shirt and shoes and I tried to figure out what to do. I called out for him to hurry up in case there was a catastrophe. The chair murderously tipped and bounced, and I struggled to remain perfectly still. To avoid a tragic incident involving an overturned chair and a new bride drowning, I carefully slid off into the water.
That’s when the magic truly began. My body naturally took to the calm water. The bay blocked the waves, giving the beach water a nice stillness. I was able to swim around and dive under the water without even the need for a life jacket. It was more like a pool than a natural body of water. My disability melted away into the ripples. I felt free and unhindered by gravity or injury. I felt normal.
Jeremy lazily swam over. “So is this was worth all that trouble?”
“What trouble?” I grinned, snuggling back in his arms.
We bobbed and drifted there in our own little piece of paradise all afternoon, enjoying the scenery and planning the exciting new life we were building together.
Suddenly, and certainly unexpectedly, I'd found the romantic bliss I'd always dreamed of.
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