In 2016, I had what I thought was a brilliant idea: a relaxing cruise. Just me, a big ship, the open sea, and perhaps a few dolphins joyfully following along as I reclined on the deck, engrossed in a Tom Clancy novel. I pictured people around me, civilized and happy, united by the common goal of enjoying sunshine and overpriced cocktails.
So, off to the interwebs I went, and lo and behold—there were cruises galore. Florida cruises, Seattle to Alaska, European river cruises, the Mediterranean, and some that looked like they might involve smuggling. The choices were endless, and it all came down to how much money I was willing to part with. Since it was my first “voyage,” I went with something simple: a South Carolina-to-Bahamas cruise. And, by some stroke of luck—or so I thought—I found a ticket at an absolute bargain. What could possibly go wrong? (Famous last words.)
The day of the trip arrived, and I was as excited as a hyperactive squirrel on an espresso binge. From check-in to boarding, the experience felt… nauti—cal. Not quite boarding the USS Enterprise, but certainly more exciting than getting on a plane. And then, we sailed south.
At first glance, the ship was an absolute behemoth, brimming with every comfort known to man. Cozy rooms, endless restaurants, and—most importantly—bars. Oh, the bars. But we’ll get back to those. I won’t name the cruise line, but it was taken from a place where you’d find a chaotic mess of flashing lights, questionable rides at best and deep fried everything.
The next morning, in the spirit of adventure, I got up early. Early as in “German tourist securing a sunbed” early. I made my way to the bow, arms stretched out, fully prepared to reenact Titanic—minus the iceberg. It was peaceful. It was beautiful. It was perfect.
And then, humanity woke up.
Within hours, every square inch of the ship was overrun. Loud, excitable people gesticulating wildly, as though auditioning for an Italian soap opera. No matter where I went—the bow, the stern, the starboard and port side—it was the same: a carnival of noise and chaos. The ship had the ambiance of a floating amusement park where the main attraction was bad decisions.
Fine, I thought, I’ll have breakfast. What greeted me was a scene reminiscent of a prison riot—if the inmates were armed with unlimited access to an all-you-can-eat buffet. The line for food stretched back to South Carolina, and the passengers looked less like eager tourists and more like extras from The Walking Dead, desperately shuffling toward fresh meat.
As the day progressed, things took a dark turn. The drunks had multiplied exponentially. Some were shouting, others were picking fights, and a select few had fully embraced their inner Shakespeare, drunkenly monologuing into the void, and I quickly discovered why: for a small fee, passengers were given an all-access pass to the ship’s open bars. Who, in their right mind, thought this was a good idea?
By nighttime, my cabin became my sanctuary. The paper-thin walls, however, did not offer much protection from the carnal symphony happening all around me. Arguments, laughter, and… other noises filled the air. It felt less like a cruise and more like being trapped in a floating frat house. I began counting the hours until we reached Nassau.
By morning, I’d had enough. We docked in Nassau, and as soon as they announced disembarkation, I grabbed my suitcase and made a run for it. Freedom was within reach.
Or so I thought.
As I reached the gangway, I was stopped by the ship’s overly enthusiastic “sailors,” who seemed alarmed by the fact that I was carrying luggage.
“Why are you carrying your luggage, sir?” they asked with suspicious enthusiasm.
“Because I’m leaving,” I said, attempting my best Harrison Ford impression.
“You can’t do that,” they replied, summoning the ship’s officers and captain, who, upon arrival, informed me that I was in their logbook and, therefore, under their care.
“Care?” I asked, “I’m pretty sure that doesn’t extend to preventing a floating frat party from turning into Lord of the Flies.”
They weren’t amused. They muttered something about being a “flight risk” and refused to let me go. At this point, I noticed that none of the crew were American—each had a small flag on their nameplate denoting their nationality. Probably useful for translation purposes, but not particularly helpful when they were threatening to illegally detain me.
So, I took a deep breath, put on my best poker face, and decided to bluff. “Are you seriously considering holding an American citizen against his will—within earshot of the U.S. Coast Guard and Navy?” Then, in a moment of reckless boldness, I added, “I’d like to see you try.”
Cue emergency meeting among the “sunshine squad.” Eventually, they decided to call in the Bahamian authorities, presumably expecting a SWAT team to drag me back to my cabin.
Instead, a couple of Bahamian officials arrived in tiny golf carts, dressed in crisp white uniforms with black ties and shoulder boards. Without hesitation, the customs officer slapped an “INSPECTED” sticker on my suitcase, the immigration officer checked my passport, stamped it, and announced, “He’s in Bahamian territory now. I advise you to let him go.”
And just like that, I was free.
The Bahamian authorities, amused by the whole ordeal, whisked me away in their golf cart and said, “Hey man, we’d rather you spend your money here than on that dirty ship.” They even helped me find a stunning resort just outside the city and a rental car—one that, for some reason, had Japanese writing on all the buttons.
As it turned out, what began as a floating nightmare ended in an unforgettable stay in Nassau. Incredible food, rich culture, amazing people. It’s now one of my favorite places in the world.
Moral of the story? If something sounds like too good of a deal… it probably comes with an unlimited drinks package and an army of drunken lunatics ready to ruin your vacation.
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A Kings 
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