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“Islands: Paradise or trap?” mused Dr. Pepper Trail, one of the world’s foremost forensic ornithologists, during a lecture on the dodo and the plight of island birds. I sipped my iced Americano in the back row of the theater, gently swaying on a boat where I’d set out to learn something similar: Are cruises paradise, or a trap?
Over a decade of whirling around the globe as a travel writer, I have gone far out of my way to avoid cruises, declining all sea-faring invites and assignments as a general rule. The fear of air travel may be better known, but I’m far more troubled by the sea, which has so much to hide. As actress Quinta Brunson recently put it, “There’s no reason for me to be in the middle of the ocean. If I want to go to a hotel, I’ll go to the Four Seasons Philadelphia.”
Beyond my suspicion of the open water, I’ve always been wary of organized travel, priding myself on my ability to design thoughtful trips independently, losing myself in new destinations rather than speed-running the most famous attractions. Then I got sick, which brought with it lingering fatigue and a new coziness with my own mortality. While I’ve been cancer-free for a little over a year, the intense regimen of high-dose chemo has left me with lifelong side effects that limit my ability to physically exert myself. No longer able to flit around the world so effortlessly, I began considering the idea of a cruise. Ideally, one that would schlep me to remote places that are impossible for me to access, let alone explore, without the expert help I’d long avoided… like, say, the teeny, lesser-known, highly protected islands of the Seychelles, where giant tortoises and red-footed boobies roam free.
“Cruising the Seychelles and Coastal Tanzania,” a 12-night voyage with the luxury travel company Abercrombie & Kent, started calling to me like a siren song. A small Ponant expedition ship called Le Bougainville, with just 148-traveler capacity, would hop between gorgeous island ecosystems while offering daily lectures from on-board naturalists, marine biologists, and conservationists. Since my diagnosis, I had developed a fear of venturing too far from major hospitals. But on board this ship, the doctors could travel with me.
The luxe accommodations didn't hurt either; Every stateroom on Le Bougainville has a balcony, plus amenities like Diptyque bath products and a 24-7 room service menu that includes a smoked salmon platter and assortment of French cheeses. I’d been warned about cruises’ sneaky fees—"The soda package is extra! Wi-Fi is $1,000!"—but this would be truly all inclusive, with wines you actually want to drink (Ponant is French, bien sur) and daily afternoon tea. The feel would be less floating mall, more boutique hotel, with a flavor of small liberal arts college. So, I set aside my travel hubris, dropped my chihuahua off with my parents, and flew across the world.
After a sweaty but invigorating day exploring Zanzibar and a welcome dinner at the seaside Park Hyatt, I boarded the ship along with roughly 80 other passengers. I took the best shower of my life before strolling upstairs to the cozy library and bar, which extended to an open observation deck with stunning panoramic views. Then, I tracked down this ship's impressive medical facility and immediately introduced myself to Dr. Louisa. Another lingering side effect of cancer is that I love talking shop with medical professionals–medications, procedures, infections–partly to show off, partly because it makes me feel safer. I told her that because of my cancer history, I was pretty terrified of becoming seasick—nausea was a huge trigger for me. I started crying and she gave me Dramamine. Dr. Louisa became my closest confidante on board.
Trying my best to make friends with non-employees and to forget that we were floating, I eased into a peaceful daily rhythm, fueled by bottomless Nespresso drinks, the flaky French pastries, and my newly acquired Dramamine. Turns out my unease of the open ocean was in fact not my biggest challenge when ship-bound, no—social anxiety was. I may have been the youngest in literal age—If I had to guess, I was 35 years younger than the average age on board—but I was almost always the first to bed. Surrounded by couples who’d been married for decades, I was confronted with the severity of my introversion, leading me to practice asking “Is this seat taken?” in the mirror so I wouldn’t eat every meal alone. By day three, my fellow passengers would wave me over at lunch and join me for coffee in the lounge.
After a few too many nights sequestered in my room, enjoying room service and the ability to stream American baseball in the remote corners of the Indian Ocean, I received an invitation to have drinks and dinner with the captain, at the exact time I would have settled into horizontality. I doused my face in foundation and forced myself to go, and I’m glad I did. Seated at the Captain’s Table, next to lovely fellow passengers who were doing big things with their retirements, I enjoyed an elevated French meal with wine pairings, even if I retreated to bed before dessert. I grew to begrudgingly appreciate the forced socialization, in part because everyone was respectful about leaving me alone when I wanted solitude. (One of dozens of reasons I get along best with people triple my age.) As a solo traveler, I have to work a lot harder to break out of my shell and meet people; on a cruise, it’s as simple as flopping into the pool when someone else is there.
Coming to terms with my anxieties off the ship was a far less overwrought experience. Thanks to the expertly curated itinerary, there was no shuttling around under the brutal sun, enduring hours and hours of tour guide humor and surly glances from locals. In fact, nearly all of our disembarkations were “wet landings,” meaning we stepped off of the small Zodiac boats directly onto shore, onto islands with just a dozen or so human residents if any at all. For the first ten days of our voyage I didn’t see a single other boat—not a cruise ship, not a yacht, not a fishing boat.
Because of its remote destinations, the cruise was full of first-time cruisers, to my surprise. Some were even Never Cruisers like myself, well-traveled folks who prefer independent exploration. But it is impossible to explore many of the places on this itinerary, such as the Aldabra Atoll—the world’s second largest raised coral atoll—unless you are a researcher or giant tortoise, and so they signed on. “Most people who visit the Seychelles only hit La Digue, Pralin, and Mahe,” a fellow passenger told me, referring to the archipelago's inner islands.
Visiting the Aldabra Atoll, for example, requires adhering to intense biosecurity measures to protect its population of 100,000 giant tortoises that were brought back from the brink of extinction thanks to five decades of local-led conservation work. The cruise’s expedition team, which included Seychellois naturalists and a conservationist who conducted research on the atoll, shepherded us through the process seamlessly. In collaboration with the Seychelles Island Foundation, they helped us vacuum out our shoes and wallets and camera bags and any belongings we were bringing ashore, and had us dip the soles of our shoes into antimicrobial liquid, to prevent introducing any threats into the ecosystem.
Nothing could have prepared me for the thrill of seeing those massive crusty tortoises up close, or watching dozens of Seychelles boobies, seen by so few humans in history, relaxing on tree branches.
While the destinations were remote and the expeditions were extreme, we were far from roughing it back on board. I’d underestimated just how comfortable cruises can be–silly on my part, as that’s a main selling point. With a doctor and nurse on board, I felt safer, too, and marveled at how accommodating the staff was of travelers with disabilities like myself. If I had to turn around early on a nature walk, there was always someone to help walk me back. Not to mention every meal sorted, daily yoga classes right downstairs, bottomless Americanos, and Perrier with lemon. Yes, Abercrombie & Kent offers a luxury product, and it’s reflected in quick, smooth service. I was never more than a shout away from the uber high-end camp counselors, all brilliant at smooth-talking the discerning, high-paying clientele.
When a rain storm postponed one day’s afternoon’s snorkel operation due to low visibility, cruise director Arthur Diaz finished explaining the situation over the announcements with a cheery “...So relax and have a coffee.” This became a soothing refrain whenever there was a momentary, impossible-to-plan-for hiccup (like the arrival time of custom’s agents) shared with the guests. And so I did. I relaxed and had lots of coffees. It was a life at sea I grew to love.
As I dressed for a morning on Le Poivre, a lush, remote atoll in the Seychelles’ outer islands, I noticed a small brown bird on my balcony that appeared to be stuck. My lectures and conversations with Trail, the onboard bird guy, allowed me to identify him as a noddy. “He’s been here for over an hour—I think he might be injured,” I told reception over the phone. A few minutes later, the captain of the ship, Gilles Thomas, appeared at my door, and asked if he could come in. He took a look at the scared bird. “Sometimes they just need a little help flying away,” he said. He asked for a towel and gently approached the scared little bird, lifting him onto the towel and placing him gently on the balcony rail. The noddy flew off into the horizon, the turquoise sea shimmering beneath him.
