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Being There or Being Square
By Andy Glazer

I was asleep, in the middle of a dream where I was working in my garden, trying to save it from washing away during LA's rainy season, when Chance intervened, and a phone call snapped me from the arms of Morpheus. Card Player Cruise's Bonnie Damiano was calling to see if I was interested in chronicling another seafaring adventure, this time to the Eastern Caribbean.

I'd been on one of these floating cocktail parties before, to the Mexican Riviera, and while my brain and libido were saying "yes, yes, yes," my liver was shouting "No, No, No!" I decided to remain neutral and let my mouth arbitrate the dispute.

"I like to watch," I said. "Even after the harshest of winters, Spring inevitably follows, renewing the circle of life."

"Unless you're quoting obscure movie lines again, I don't know what you've been smoking, Andy," Bonnie said. "I think a little too much of that Esalen Zen philosophy has sunk into your brain cells. I just want to know if you're interested in a good deal on a cruise to four beautiful warm tropical islands in a few weeks, on the Italian cruise ship Costa Victoria."

"Let me get this straight," I said. "You want to send me on a cruise to the Caribbean, where I can play in poker games against people who have been overeating and overdrinking, and during my off hours, I can watch lithe tanned young Italian women stroll around in swimsuits too racy for the SI swimsuit issue, and all I have to do to earn this way-cheaper-than-normal deal is write a story about it?"

"That's more or less it," Bonnie replied.

"I could have sworn I was dreaming before the phone rang," I said. "It sounds like a rotten job, but somebody has to do it."

Alert the Media, Part I: Reading the Directions Can Help!

Bonnie sent me a packet of materials, and shortly after receiving this packet I realized I'd probably gotten way too much in touch with my feminine side during my Esalen years, because I did something no self-respecting male would ever consider.

I read the directions.

Not only did I read them, but I also followed them, even though one of the items seemed to make no sense. "Attach the red Costa Victoria luggage tags to your baggage before you leave home," the directions said.

"That's stupid," I thought. "The baggage handlers at the airport will just get confused, or tear them off. Do they think I'll lose the damn things if I don't put them on at home?"

I was operating on short rest, though, and was too tired to argue with myself. I put the tags on, and when I got off the plane in Ft. Lauderdale, a nattily dressed Costa representative told me that because I'd pre-tagged the bags, not only did I not have to go to baggage claim, but their people would pick them up, and deliver them directly to my cabin on the ship.

Now I was completely screwed. I'd read the directions, just one lousy time, and this had transformed a process that would have been cumbersome and awkward into something carefree and effortless. If I remembered this lesson, I'd be stuck reading the directions for the rest of my life.

All Aboard the Good Ship Costa Victoria

This timesaving bonus allowed me to visit with some friends who live in the Ft. Lauderdale area. Eventually they dropped me at the Port of Ft. Lauderdale, and I carried my little portfolio of documents and laptop inside, bravely trying not to recall what a pain it had been to carry all my non-tagged luggage aboard myself on the Mexican Riviera cruise. Another of the nattily dressed Costa personnel handed me a card with a number on it, and told me to have a seat until my number was called. This was all going way too easy. Surely I could find a dark cloud if I looked hard enough. Let's see, I know-I won't know anyone on the cruise! I'll be lonely! I'll be stuck playing lots of poker, sitting in the hot tub on deck, and visiting dreamy Caribbean islands (it's tough to be a pessimist in some situations). Yeah, that's it, I won't know anyone…

"Hi, Andy," said Richie Korbin, a friend from the LA poker world, as he strolled up. "Didn't know you were going to be on this cruise."

"Hi, Richie," I said, brightening. "I didn't know either, until a little while ago. It was such a good offer, I still think I might be dreaming, actually."

"You're not dreaming," he said, "and it's good to see you, but you look like hell. Are you sick?"

I detailed a late but ultimately profitless night of poker at the Commerce ($116,000 first prize limit hold'em event, 400 entrants, 27 places paid, 35th place finish, just the way I like it), a red-eye flight that had featured the third-worst crying baby I could remember (the worst ever was on an LA-Atlanta flight, and the second-worst ever had been knocked out with six tables to go at the Commerce), and calculated that I had probably slept only about three hours in the last sixty.

"It shows," he said, not unkindly. "Get yourself some sleep when you get on board."

That was my plan, but when I got to my room - an outside cabin this time, I had learned my lesson on the good ship Elation - I found one king-sized bed. This would not have been a problem, except that I already knew Bonnie had paired me with a roommate I hadn't met, a fellow named Richard Engle, and while I'd grown a good deal more liberal in my thinking in my Esalen days, I hadn't gotten that broadminded. I called the cabin steward and explained that while I had no doubt Mr. Engle was a very handsome man, one bed for the two of us was not going to cut it.

"No problem, I fix up right away," he said in fractured but eager to please English. "Is actually two beds, all the rooms set up that way, I split apart, put on opposite sides of the cabin."

With Richard and I now each reassured that we weren't going to be boldly going where no man had gone before, I wandered up to enjoy the free cocktail party for the 200 or so Card Player Cruisers, wolfed down a few margaritas, accepted my free t-shirt, sunglasses and waterproof key and change holder, went to dinner, ate an enormous meal, went to my room, and, party animal that I am, stayed there for the next 48 hours.

Another Good Read for Richie Korbin

No, I wasn't seasick; I'm immune to that particular ailment, and seasickness is very rare on large cruise ships, anyway. The lack of sleep had taken its toll, and I had a good old-fashioned miserable cold. Richie Korbin had made a good read on me, just as he often has at the poker table.

Given that I had to be sick somewhere, I had accidentally picked a good time and place for it. We were spending the first two days of the cruise steaming southward, so I wasn't missing any exotic ports of call. I had unlimited free room service, which is a hell of a lot better situation than I would have faced alone in my LA apartment, and thanks to the wise reservation of an outside cabin, I had crashing surf sounds to help me sleep (I hadn't known this, but water slapping the outside of a ship makes a sound more similar to waves crashing onto a beach than you would imagine).

The boat's gentle swaying motion also helped me sleep, in a manner not unlike laying in a hammock (or-I'm going more out a limb here, because the memories are distant-like being cradled in friendly arms). Finally, because I had decided to bring my laptop to write my story as it unfolded, I was able to watch my own DVDs on my laptop whenever I grew tired of watching "I'm-the-King-of-the-World-cam" (my nickname for the video feed showing the view from the ship's bow), or the satellite TV.

I drifted in and out of a Star Trek-Monty Python-2001 A Space Odyssey-aided delirium. Occasionally I'd think I was Horatio Hornblower, in the midst of some sea battle with cannons roaring, only to realize I'd awakened myself from my own dreams with a thunderous sneeze.

Most of the time, I rested comfortably, thanks in part to some medicines kindly provided by Wendeen Eolis, a renowned NY player whom I had previously known more by reputation as a tough player than as a Florence Nightingale, and I got through my illness as well as could be expected. I couldn't decide if the most humorous moment came during my viewing of Monty Python's "Life of Brian," or when my roommate spoke up the second morning.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, softening the upcoming blow.

"Your basic death-warmed-over," I moaned. "Sorry you got stuck with a sick roommate."

"No problem," he said, "I usually don't catch colds. Ummm… has anyone ever told you that you snore?"

Snore? Me? Gee, do you think there was a chance that a girl-crazy single lad who had been an active dater for the last 28 of his 45 years had ever heard that one before?

"As a matter of fact, I have heard it once or twice," I admitted. "Hope it wasn't too bad."

"No, not too bad, I don't think I'll hear it after tonight," Richard said, pulling out a pair of earplugs I think he stole from the guys who work the tarmac at the airport.

Monday's Tournament Results

My illness kept me from jumping into the first of two tournaments offered during the cruise, a Monday morning $120 limit hold'em event, so I missed my chance at all that luscious prize money. The 57 starters played down to the following winners:

1. Dana Forrest, $1,938 and TOC Qualification 2. Bob Phillips, $969 3. Gayle Phillips, $627 4. Mark Wiseman, $513 5. Arnold Cohen, $456 6. Cliff Lang, $399 7. Art Dinkin, $342 8. Mike O'Malley, $285 9. Michael Klein, $171

I started feeling semi-human just about the time we pulled into our first stop, San Juan, Puerto Rico. I might have stayed on board, as I still felt a bit weak, but my journalistic integrity demanded that I cover the story, and Linda Johnson had prearranged a meal ashore for us, so I sprung, rather wobbly, into action.

Dinner was outstanding, even though I wound up at Restaurant B through a mild miscommunication. Linda had reserved the entire Restaurant A, and told them to prepare for 40 to 80 people. Somewhere along the line this got translated to "40 people," and Restaurant A did not have enough food or staff for the 56 or so of us who arrived. I bravely volunteered for the alternate restaurant up the street, and received an unexpected bonus when Linda and her partner Mark Tenner picked up the tab for the folks who went along with Plan B without protest.

Thus fortified by this feast, I re-boarded the Costa Victoria, or the "Vicky," as I came to call her. I'm not exactly sure why we went for a big meal ashore, though. I checked the ship's vital statistics, and the Vicky was listed as weighing 76,000 "gross tons." I couldn't figure out why they were "gross" tons, instead of the usual kind, until I realized that at least 75,000 of the tons had to be food. I've never been anywhere before where the waiter explained that if we weren't sure what we wanted, we should just order two or three main courses each, and then we could get two or three more servings of our favorite after we figured out which we liked best.

On to That Jewel of an Island, St. Thomas

A short evening ride took us to an island I'd never visited before, St. Thomas. Pull out your dictionary, and I'm pretty sure that under the word "picturesque," the definition will include the phrase, "See, e.g., St. Thomas." Beautiful villas ("houses" just doesn't seem like the right word) dot the hillsides. The whole place looked like a picture postcard.

Like most Caribbean islands, St. Thomas has a lovely climate, depends mostly on tourism for income, and is full of stores whose signs should read "Future American Garage Sale Bargains." St. Thomas' other specialty is jewelry: they sell a lot of it, or at least so my many married friends told me upon their wives' return.

Faced with a choice of more than a dozen available pre-planned shore excursions, and only one day to take in the whole island, I decided on the one that would really enable me to savor the unique St. Thomas flavor would be the "submarine adventure," where you get to board an actual recreational submarine, and travel around underwater through reefs that could be located anywhere within 20,000 leagues. I guess I'll save checking out the actual island for the next time around.

Red Alert! Giant Squid to Starboard!

Nonetheless, coral reefs are pretty anywhere, and the trip was relatively uneventful until the giant squid attacked the sub. We started shaking violently back and forth, and one of the squid's tentacles broke throw the hull, spraying me with seawater, and the tentacle jabbed me in the shoulder. This hurt less than I would have expected, and when it jabbed me again, I woke up to find the woman behind me poking me in the shoulder. "I didn't mind when you fell asleep and started drooling," she said, "but the snoring was scaring the fish away."

Captain Nemo never had to deal with indignities like this.

We had to be back on board by 5:00, and the Vicky took to sea again. Before dinner, the cruisers were treated to a poker seminar given by Linda Johnson, Jan Fisher, Mike O'Malley, and me, and although this had be one of the least rehearsed multi-panelist seminars in history (preparation had begun and ended by Linda asking us each to prepare our top five poker tips, and then to wing it handling audience questions), the eighty or so attendees genuinely seemed to enjoy it, and many asked if we could do another one.

We didn't have another good spot to fit one into the schedule, which was just as well for two reasons. First, I only have five good tips, and second, after everyone saw my results in the Wednesday night games, I assumed my credibility was shot.

Getting Sliced Up in the Pizza Room

Although all cruise ships have casinos, Card Player cruises feature special temporary poker rooms. On the Vicky, we had a nice view from the 12th deck (one higher than the ship's main deck) in our temporary long, thin eleven-table room, which had been converted over from its usual duty as the ship's pizzeria. Unfortunately, after we had played for a while, my opponents were the ones rolling in dough, which is pretty much what I expected would happen immediately after standing up in front of them as an alleged Expert.

As an Expert, I opted for the highest-stake game in the room, a 20-40 HOE game (Hold'em, Omaha eight-or-better, and Seven-Card Stud eight-or-better played in one-round rotation). I had six hands all night and got rivered on four of them, and because I was an Expert seminar teacher and hence a role model, couldn't even curse at the dealer.

Actually, I never curse at dealers, and while that's a good policy for any poker player, it's especially good for a Card Player cruiser, because the cardroom has a very strict no-abuse policy. Everyone is on vacation, and no one wants to hear foul language. The games are quite jovial, actually, much friendlier than your typical cardroom games. About the only complaint I heard about the poker room was- I'm not making this up -that it was relatively hard to get food delivered there. As my own stomach was usually so swelled from the meals that one false move could have resulted in an explosion much like the scene in Monty Python's Meaning of Life, I had no personal complaints about this one.

I wasn't the only player who left that night thinking Shelly Winters had had better luck during The Poseidon Adventure, though. On one hand, I watched fellow alleged expert Mike O'Malley-who had been playfully accused by a fellow presenter during the seminar of having a horseshoe inserted up a tender potion of his anatomy-put a bad beat on a fellow player in a manner that confirmed what I now refer to as The Horseshoe Theory, and believe me, it has nothing to do with Binion's.

Mike O'Malley and His Magic Horseshoe

Mike, a very friendly, extraordinarily funny, likeable fellow who has more reason to claim Alleged Expert status than I do, was playing eight-or-better stud at one point against a gent wearing a Detroit Red Wings cap. Heads-up on fourth street, Mr. Red Wings' board showed A-A vs. Mike's 3-9. The aces bet, and Mike called. On fifth street, the boards improved to A-A-7 vs. 3-9-5, and again Mike called. On sixth street, the aces tripped up into A-A-7-A, and Mike caught a queen, and showed 3-9-5-Q.

Actually, Mike was only "sort of" showing 3-9-5-Q, because when he caught the nine, he had tossed it to me face-up and said "Hold this for me." The games really are more relaxed on ship. Then, when he caught the queen, he also tossed me that one ("Here, I don't need this one either"), so it was pretty clear even to the non-alleged experts that he was on a low draw.

The trip aces checked the river, Mike bet, the trips called, and Mike turned over the four he'd caught on the end for a wheel. We were on a full ship, but his opponent hadn't made a full boat, and Mike dragged the pot. This is an easy game sometimes. If Mike O'Malley ever offers to sell you a horseshoe, buy it. Just make sure it isn't used.

Although CP cruises will spread any game the players request, at any limit, on this particular cruise, people had the good sense to recognize that when you're already in paradise, you don't have to win ten grand to have a good vacation, so 20-40 was the biggest game in the room. The rest of the games were split pretty evenly between 2-4, 4-8, and 10-20 action, and also split pretty evenly between hold'em and Omaha (usually eight-or-better). There were also usually two 1-5 stud games going.

The less said about my own poker the rest of this evening the better, especially when I can talk about fun things like the next day's adventures on Catalina Island.

No, we hadn't zipped through the Panama Canal at warp speed and wound up off the California coast. Even though the more well-known Catalina Island lies pretty close to Los Angeles, there is a less well-known version in the Caribbean. It's part of the Dominican Republic.

All Ashore for Catalina Island

Acting on orders from the ship's captain (having hidden in my room during the life boat drill, I wasn't sure if we were under the command of Captain Kirk, Picard, Cisko, Janeway, or Hazelwood), the Vicky's various launches and shuttlecraft took us ashore, and we spent a delightful beach day. You could rent a mask and snorkel for $8, and as I had no wish to parade my Olympic poker player physique on shore, nor the desire to be beaten to a bloody pulp by the muscular boyfriends of all of the string bikini clad Italian femme fatales (actually, they weren't all string bikinis; my favorite looked more like it was made out of gold foil), I decided to investigate the reef.

The reef and the assortment of brilliantly colored fish inhabiting it were delightful. I watched tiny fish nibbling on coral and plankton, smaller fish chasing the tiny fish, medium-sized fish chasing the small fish, and the occasional big fish swimming around like he owned the place. I'd never realized a coral reef was so much like a poker room. Perhaps if I could have understood fish-talk, I'd have even heard the tiny fish complain about bad bites instead of bad beats.

Alert the Media, Part II: A Poker Player Does Something Useful

Back on board at dinner later that night, I got to experience a feeling I treasure, because it hasn't come along too many times in my life, and no, this time I don't have a joke about someone running her foot along the inside of my leg at the table.

One of the many entertaining aspects of cruising is the easy way it is to make new friends. You're seated with the same group of eight for dinner each night, and while you can decide to move to another table if you want, if you find and stick with an amenable group, you can really get to know some people over the course of the voyage, because you also get to spend time with them in the poker room.

The very first night, I had taken a liking to a man (no, not that kind of liking) at our table, a fellow I hadn't met before but who seemed full of gusto, good stories, and a zest for life. Even though he was a few years older than me, we had a few things in common in our backgrounds, and it's also pretty hard to dislike a guy whose opening salvo, upon introduction, is "Andy Glazer? The one who writes for Card Player? I love your writing."

Thursday night, I got to repay his kind opening salvo, because he started choking rather badly at the dinner table, and for some reason, no one else at the table noticed. If they did notice, they didn't realize how much trouble he appeared to be in. I don't know about you, but I love to be a hero even when strangers are involved, and my new friend (whose name I am omitting only to avoid embarrassing him) was no stranger.

I'd never done or been taught the Heimlich maneuver, but I'd seen it often enough in movies, and I wasn't going to just sit there, so I jumped up, ran around to the other side of the table, and on the third violent bear hug, popped a big old hunk of pasta out of my pal's throat. Maybe he'd have been fine anyway, but I left the table feeling more useful to the world than I usually do after a night of poker.

I can't promise you'll have the same "feel good" experience if you take a CP cruise, but I wouldn't be surprised if the atmosphere leaves you leaving the boat as I did, that you've made at least two new friends you expect to keep for many years.

Although I don't like to think about "justice" in poker (whatever justice there is in the world is reserved, I think, for matters more important than poker), my cards did run much better for the next day and a half. I had so much fun Thursday night that I arose too late to enter the Friday morning Omaha eight-or-better tournament, and the 37 starters played down to these five happy winners:

1. Mike Majerus, $1,480 and TOC qualification 2. Art Dinkin, $914 3. Elaine England, $595 4. Gayle Phillips, $411 5. Val Steinsmith, $300

Two Repeat Finalists

In case you missed the "coincidence," Dinkin and Phillips were also final table members in the hold'em tournament, which makes me think we missed two good candidates for leading the poker seminar.

In any case, the good times and good games after I got to play hero got me close to even as we pulled into our last port of call in Nassau, The Bahamas.

I'd been to the Bahamas many times before, so I wasn't particularly interested in exploring Nassau again, and I've been to enough casinos that a special trip just to see the gorgeous new Atlantis didn't attract me either. I decided to opt for the special "Rose Island Adventure," a prearranged boat trip to one of the many tiny Bahamian islands.

Unfortunately, there was a lot of traffic in Bahamian waters, and the Costa Victoria was late pulling into Nassau, late enough so that the prearranged charter boat would not wait for all of the CP cruisers to disembark. This was an extremely novel form of bad beat because it was the first time I had ever met anyone in the Bahamas who was in a hurry to do anything.

Nothing throws Linda Johnson, though. She just wandered over to the pier and chartered us another boat to take us over to Rose Island, and although Linda couldn't possibly have known this during the quick negotiations, our guide proved to be hysterically funny, offering a running line of patter about the various houses we were passing and their owners. We were able to take the regular "party" boat back at the end of the day, but our substitute boat ride was actually more fun.

Rose Island was terrific. Unlike Catalina Island - which while pretty enough was jammed full of people - Rose Island was practically deserted. The forty or so CP cruisers who opted for that excursion had plenty of room to spread out, and the snorkeling here was free. We were allowed to opt either for a 12:30 return or a 3:00 return, and as we had arrived late, I expected most people to opt for the 3:00 return. To my surprise, all but four others departed at 12:30. When I asked some of those leaving why they were leaving, the most common answer was that they wanted to be able to do some shopping in Nassau.

Tough Choice: Shopping or a White Sandy Beach?

I looked to my left, and saw a long, unending white sandy beach lined with palm trees. I looked to my right, and saw the same thing. I looked ahead, and saw crystal clear waters gently lapping at the sand. Hurrying out of here so I could buy some stuff I didn't need in Nassau didn't seem like a good option. I stuck around, even though if you actually wanted rum in the "unlimited free rum punches," they charged $3.50 extra.

Although I hadn't known who was staying and who was going when I made my decision, I was surprised to see a rather attractive ringless woman amongst the people who hadn't voted themselves off the island. Mostly for purposes of journalistic integrity, I approached her with a question.

"Hi, I'm Andy," I said, as clever an opening remark as I have ever managed. "I'm here on the cruise so I can write a story about it, and I have a question, if you don't mind."

"No, not at all," she said.

"One of my themes for the story is a lack of singles on this trip, that people thinking their poker cruise is going to be the Love Boat have the wrong idea, at least as far as the poker crowd goes," I explained. "I was planning on describing this trip as much better for couples than for singles. I hadn't known there were ANY single women along for the ride, at least other than the organizers and staff. How did you come to be here?"

She smiled. "Your story is safe," she said, "on two counts. First, I'm married, and second, I am part of the staff. I'm one of the dealers. My name is Jennifer Zeidner, and my husband Chris is also a dealer but can't make every cruise."

"Glad to know I had sized things up correctly," I said, a lie made easier by years of claiming the hand I'd mucked on the end was the second-nuts. "What's it like, being a dealer on one of these cruises?"

"It's really a great job," Jennifer said. "The players are nicer than they usually are, the tips are good, and whenever I'm not working, I'm on a cruise. Can't beat it. But you can tell your male readers they shouldn't necessarily give up hope of meeting a woman in poker."

How was that, I wanted to know.

"I met my husband playing poker," Jennifer explained. "I was new to cardroom poker, and I asked the floorman if he could recommend someone who might let me watch him play for a while. The floorman steered me over to sweat this guy Chris, and I wound up marrying him, and becoming a dealer myself. Pretty funny."

I'd always known I should have done a better job tipping those floormen. Jennifer and I chatted a bit more, and after purchasing some real rum for a couple of free rum punches, I relaxed on the beach, enjoyed some genuinely peaceful and tranquil semi-consciousness, and felt quite smug about having opted to enjoy some quality time instead of rushing off for one more shopping venture.

Toga… Toga… Toga!!!

I grew so relaxed during this beach time, in fact, that I decided to cast off my usual attempts at dignity and join the ship-wide toga party that evening. That's right, toga party. The Vicky's daily newsletter, Costa Today, called for all guests who were bold enough to don togas, and the cabin stewards delivered extra sheets, along with toga tying instructions and gold cardboard laurel wreaths, to all cabins.

Ever since watching Animal House I had wanted to attend a toga party, but I couldn't for the life of me figure out how to tie the damn thing on without revealing as much of me as the string or gold foil bikinis revealed on the objects of my beach fantasies, and I didn't possess quite the same quality of, er, assets, to display. I had settled on a demi-toga top with white pants on underneath, both for the sake of my dignity and everyone else's dinner, when my roommate Richard came to my rescue, and with a few deft knots, I was ready to Hail Caesar with the best of them.

The toga party was supposed to start ship-wide at 6:15, but CP cruises was having a special toga party for its own at 5:00, and so Richard and I crossed from our side of the ship to the other, out on the main pool deck, wearing our togas amongst a group of people who were still dressed rather more sanely.

"There are two things I'm very sure of," I said to Richard as we took this 80-yard stroll through the staring throng.

"What's that?" he asked.

"First, I am absolutely positive I have never before had this many people smile at me in less than a minute," I said.

"And the second?" he asked.

"I'm damn glad you're walking right besides me, also wearing a toga," I answered. "I don't think I'd have it in me to make it across this deck wearing this get-up all by myself."

Otis, My Man, Fails to Show

The CP party was pretty full, and about half the people had decided to lose their shirts in a different fashion than one normally does in a poker game. The staff had come prepared: Mark Tenner wore a robe that evoked images of Socrates, and his wife Lisa sported a fine Cleopatra outfit. Linda Johnson and Bonnie Damiano also arrived wearing togas rather more elegant than one could assemble with a sheet and a helpful roommate.

There were plenty of free cocktails to keep everyone's Dutch courage functioning, and a number of prizes and awards. Planet Poker, the Internet cardroom that had been sponsoring high hand giveaways throughout the week, also gave away certificates good for $25 in free play. There was some dancing, but to my great disappointment, "my man" Otis Day and the Knights were not playing, and the band never broke into "Shake," so my adolescent fantasy of gatoring in a toga remains unfulfilled.

We all then wandered down for our final "pack it away while you can" meal. After a week of eating like this, I understood why they herded departure groups into different sections of the ship the next morning. If all of these newly fattened calves had run to one side of the boat at once, we'd have capsized.

As I had played poker in a tuxedo the night before, during Formal night, it seemed only right that I remain toga-clad for the final evening's games. Sticking with my "quality time" theme from the afternoon on the beach, I opted for the 4-8 Omaha eight-or-better game, because that's where my saved-from-choking friend was playing, and I wanted to hang out with him a bit more. I caught a bonus when my other new friend, Wendeen Eolis, decided to sit behind the two of us and sweat us in this "high stakes" action.

"You've probably sweated lots of 4-8 games before," I told her, "except those were probably 400-800."

"It's not the size of the game," she said, "it's the quality of the gentlemen in it." Gosh, what a charmer. I'm sure she's setting me up to trap me for all my chips the next time we meet in a no-limit tournament.

All in All, A Good Chance to Stop and Smell the Roses

For a week that started out with a cold and ended up with a small net loss at the poker tables, I had a hell of a time. I made new friends, ate 30 or 40 good meals, snorkeled, played Captain Nemo, suntanned, possibly saved someone's life, wore a tuxedo and a toga within 24 hours of each other, and quite enjoyed myself, whenever I was willing to consider the world as something larger than a poker table.

I might have to take that attitude a bit more frequently. When I neither immerse myself in my beloved game nor run away from it, but instead merely accept it as part of the greater whole, like it is on a poker cruise, I achieve a kind of balance I can't find at either extreme. No accountant can audit life in our favor. We do that with the choices we make. Whether you take your own poker cruise for the games, the food, the sights, or the people, you'll probably find what you're looking for in the infinitely diverse garden of possibilities on and off the ship. If you give yourself a chance to breathe it all in, life is a state of mind, and that clean, salty sea air breathes rather well.

Andy Glazer

People interested in taking a Card Player Cruise should contact Jan@Pokerpages.com

Photos The Ship
Lisa Tenner	Curly Cohen	Mike Majorus
Dana Forrest	Poker Action	The Poker Room
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