The morning of departure finally dawns.
Last minute things to pack. More anxiety in case there is something essential
forgotten. Bags out by the lift. Cathy arrives to take over minding Lucy and
the apartment, and I introduce her to our two closest neighbours who have both
promised support in case she needs anything.
The amount of
anxiety increases exponentially as the clock ticks down to leaving time. The
shuttle bus arrives and downstairs we all troop, Bruce and a neighbour help the
driver to pack our stuff, including my four wheel electric scooter (nudging
50kg!) into the back, and we are off – leaving Lucy on her lead looking forlorn
with Cathy. Or perhaps that is just how I am feeling.
We get away at
noon, pick up another couple with their luggage and that causes quite a crush
in the bus, and we wind our way to the new Cruise Terminal at White Bay. It is
such a long way to weave around and back under the Anzac Bridge that we talk
about feeling sorry for visitors to Sydney arriving at this God forsaken place
so far from the city. So unlike the old International Terminal at Circular
Quay.
In spite of
interminable seeming queues to check in, we eventually arrive at our cabin by
2pm. This is quick when we later hear stories of interstate travellers leaving
days before, staying in Melbourne or Adelaide and waiting at the airport for
transport that takes forever to arrive, and boarding at 4pm just before sailing
time – tired and hungry.
Meanwhile those
of us who are onboard go up to the smorgasbord on level 14 for a late lunch and
a relaxing ‘cuppa’, and breathe a sigh of relief that we are actually here on board.
Back downstairs we wait for luggage to arrive. Problems – where to stack all
that stuff I was so happy to bring. The cabin seems very small as we crawl
around the large bed to put bundles of clothes (for 104 days, mind you) into
narrow drawers, and on shelves in the limited wardrobe space.
Announcements on
the speakers all over the ship. “Collect
your lifejackets in the cabin, check your muster station on the back door of
your cabin, and proceed to muster stations for safety drill”. Id cards are
checked off, demos given, and we hear instructions that we all hope will never
be needed to be put into practice. We remember the ship which ran aground and
turned over off the coast in Italy.
Sailing time
arrives. We sit on our miniscule balcony as the majestic ‘Sea Princess’ makes
her way down the inside harbour, past the construction site happening on
Barangaroo, and then the Wharf where the Writers’ Festival has started today; under
the harbour bridge with the deep throated claxon hooting farewell, past the
Opera House and the grey ships tied up at the Naval wharves of Garden Island, and out to the Heads.
In no time it is
dinner time. Not dinner time as you might
have it at home, but at 5.30 as we had opted for the early sitting. Not much
past a normal afternoon tea time. The late sitting is 7.45 and the second Show
Time not until 9.45, which makes a long evening for us oldies who are used to
turning in when our TV programme finishes around ten.
Conversation at
dinner on our table of six, is subdued. We all admit to being very tired from
the stress of leaving home and getting ourselves here onto the ship, and
finding our way about. The six of us are
Aussies – 3 couples from different States -, and all going “all the way round”.
As a concession
to age and a frazzled state of near exhaustion we have no hesitation about crawling
into bed as soon as we find all the bits and pieces necessary for comfort .
Anything else will have to wait until tomorrow.
No comments:
Post a Comment