At long last landfall: shameless and tragic alliteration, I know, but two days at sea can also be a horribly redundant experience, even onboard the three-ring circus some call the Enchantment. A mini recap: Day One was our departure from Fort Lauderdale, with a casual dinner that evening, followed by a barely third-rate comedian named Jimmy Carroll whose self-conscious timing tested even the fail-safe humor of high school reminiscence. Mother wisely rested in the room that evening, which gave me the chance to scout that first show undistracted. Looking for peers in all the wrong places, still after scouting I found myself completely un - intrigued. Ma'alish, as I will forever say (let it be forgiven). I did learn that there were at least 26 couples onboard who had been married for 50 years or more, surely an accomplishment headed for extinction with my generation. We gave them a standing ovation.

The day of Day Two you read in my first dispatch. That evening began with the request of formal attire for dinner. I was prepared, and so was Mother. There are two formal evenings on a seven-day cruise: on the first a woman wears her tightest, most engaging ensemble, on the last, at day Six, more accommodating attire is required. Have I mentioned the food? More on that in my next missive; first, a short fashion prologue. I had no cruise clothes when Mother bought our tickets three weeks before departure; I barely had clothes at all, as those who see me day after day in jeans can attest. So, at the recommendation of a friend, I went to a designer resale shop in Laurel Heights and in two days had a complete and fabulous cruise wardrobe: skirts, sleeveless tops, heels, shorts, a long velvet dress, etc. all in black and/or white. A major investment for a celebrated week on the high seas spent with people who didn't know me and whom I would never see again. Go figure. This was an opportunity at graduate level role-playing: me as fashion plate. I was prepared to have fun.

On this first formal evening, however, I wore my own used clothes: a beautiful fifteen year-old beaded top tucked in to a skintight long black knit skirt. I knew I could only wear this skirt on the first night, after a week of fruit and yogurt, which I had recently accomplished in anticipation of the cruise. I felt festive and elegant, and so did Mother, who wore a gorgeous beaded jacket with black pants that my sister, Cristina, (who will soon, for another gift, be reviled for her sartorial generosity) bought for her in Dubai last year. She looked lovely and like a perfect Mother of mine. Or was I a perfect daughter of hers? I'll defer to the latter based on the natural order of things, proprietary feelings aside, but these questions do arise. (My mother, myself, indeed.) We had a wonderful dinner with the Dutch couple; the Hoosiers, we later discovered, had defected to the Windjammer Café for lack of formal wear.

Day Three was another day at sea. We played bingo, yes, and I spent some time in the library. We rested, flagrantly missing the Sunrise Stretch Class, the Belly Flop Contest, the Mr. Sexy Legs Contest, the Eat More, Weigh Less Seminar, etc., etc. The performer that night was one-time (literally) recording artist Lenny Welch, who did a whole show reminiscing about the career he might have had. This seemed to be a theme for all the acts on this cruise, except for the sorry magicians on Night Four, who actually thought they were having a career. I'm sure this is where Royal Caribbean saves money in a valiant effort to subsidize the all-you-can-eat policy for its passengers. Have I mentioned the food?

You probably want to know about St. Maarten, about why it's sometimes also called St. Martin. Rumor has it that the island was divided between the French and the Dutch by having two runners sprint in opposite directions around the perimeter of the island. The faster runner scored the greatest length of shoreline with commensurate inland acreage. The French won with 21 square miles to the Dutch 16 (must have been those wooden running clogs), but it's a peaceful co-existence and the cruise ships dock in Philipsburg, so there goes any inequity in tourist income based solely on land area.

I certainly gave all my money to the Dutch. I had a mission at this first port: perfume and booze - I wanted to have my basic shopping over and done with. So I bought one of every known permutation of Fendi's Theorema, my latest olfactory palliative: golden soap, shower and bath gel, shimmering body lotion (watch out) and even an economy-sized bottle of eau de parfum, since all I'd managed to purchase in the states was the "parfum d'extrait". I wear this stuff mainly for me at night - I'm sure there's a carnal association that shall remain obscure. I also scored a fifth of Oban single malt (a lifesaver in nights to come), a bottle of B&B (from my Egyptian days, don't ask) and a bottle of Wild Sint Maarten Guavaberry Island Folk Liquor, kind of a rum thing, circa 1999, because I felt like a tourist, knowing I would spend a total of two hours on this possibly, but probably not, exotic island.

My second hour was spent slurping a Big Black Banana at a local bar. Before ordering it from the bartender, thankfully a woman, I had to ask about the black part, not really relishing the possibility of licorice in my slushy. Fortunately, Bacardi Black rum was the mystery ingredient, innocent enough, and yummy enough, as I sipped and scribbled notes on my little pad. I soon found myself watching with fascination a local beach bum wander in from playing volleyball on the sand. He had waist length black hair, which, after rinsing under the beachside shower, he proceeded to fling back and forth over his head like a dog or a babe, I couldn't decide which: I guess I haven't watched enough TV. He was provocative in this display of personal grooming, as he also changed into his street clothes right there before me. I had a thankfully fleeting literary moment when I wondered if his skin, being the color of dark rum, was possibly as intoxicating and sweet, until I realized that I was probably having a magazine ad copy moment instead, and decided to take leave. Whew. Off to the dock, where I was roughly tendered out to the ship (choppy waters being the reason Mother had stayed onboard).

Since she had rested most of the day, I could tell she was in a feisty mood. I knew what was coming when she asked if I'd seen the tee shirt that my older sister had given her. "Please, Mother…" "Yes, that one, dear." "I have no idea where it is…" I offered her no help and hoped she would give up before finding it. As I sat on my bed looking distractedly at a magazine, I implored all the sea gnomes to render it invisible and cursed my sister Cristina, fervently vibing the odious tee's spontaneous evaporation into thin air. No such luck - Mother triumphantly pulled it from a drawer. Not wanting to be the conservative party-pooper on her big night out, I opened the Oban instead and steeled myself for a night of flagrant disregard for what the neighbors might think. You could wonder if people you don't know and will never see again count as neighbors: when you're 47 and single, the world is your neighbor; when you're a widow at 82, I'm sure you couldn't care less. At least I was able to talk her into waiting for the more appropriate moment to don said tee once we were in the disco, rather than before leaving the stateroom. I told her it would be like the magician we had seen that evening emerging transformed from behind a curtain - I winced at the thought, or perhaps the wish, that I could be part of a disappearing act: Mother's motivation had just a tinge of recklessness in it. Fortunately, it was Grand Toga Party night, so silliness was thick in the air.

We walked normally and invisibly through the crowd that had gathered on the main pool deck to dance to the steel drum band and headed for the Viking Crown Lounge - our last few public moments of anonymity. The disco was blessedly empty save for one couple dancing and a few others watching. Mother was ready. In a dark corner of the room, she stiffly shimmied into the big tee and with a careless and somewhat defiant smile shuffled onto the dance floor. As her partner, I gamely began some subtle hip movements while I waved to Chris, the DJ, whom I'd met earlier in the week, and with hand motions introduced my mother. "NOW you've seen everything!" I yelled over the music. He gave me a thumbs-up and laughed in agreement. Mother quickly became everyone's favorite dancer as she slowly moved on her unsteady legs, eyebrows raised in self-surprise and amusement. The couple on the dance floor adopted her and soon everyone was gyrating and laughing. It was indeed hilarious and shocking to see an 82-year old woman dancing in a bikini with a voluptuous nearly naked 20-year old body, due to the 3-D airbrushed island fantasy tee. Thank you, sister Tina.

After a while, we went out to the main pool deck to find some women Mother had hinted at earlier about the tee shirt. They stopped in their tracks with exaggerated shock and squealed with laughter. People would suddenly see what she had on and crack up - I joined in the celebration and gamely walked with her on my arm. People took pictures with her, they danced with her, they congratulated me, they said they hoped they were doing this when they were her age, etc. etc. It was a hoot: I quickly moved beyond embarrassment and mortification into the realm of celebrity. We danced till one in the morning, long enough for nearly everyone on the boat to have a glimpse. From that day on, when Mother and I walked arm in arm, more than occasionally people stopped us to say hello and inquire about our dancing plans for the evening. We chuckled mysteriously and hinted at the possibility, but we knew one night of grace was enough for both of us.

Our next port of call was St. Thomas; I need a few days to conjure up the memories. For those of you who have wondered, yes, I'm back in Berkeley, slightly stretching the definition of a dispatch by sending it out from here, but the cruise was so action-packed, I had no time to write.

Cheers and love, Zena

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