Ahh the family vacation. A time to relax. A time to read books and watch the beautiful blue ocean as gentle breezes gently caress your body as you lounge peacefully in a hammock. Beautiful native women bring you drinks in a coconut shaped glasses with small umbrellas and offer massages to your weary, aching bones. This is what a vacation should be. This is what the full-color brochures advertised. This is what you saved up for a year to do, slaving away at a job that you despise, thinking that I have vacation coming up, I can make it, I can make it. This is a pipe dream, and unless you are under some severe hallucinogens, the reality is much different.

I flew into New Orleans form Minneapolis St. Paul, and for once I didn't have to sit next to a screaming baby or someone twice my size that thought that me using arm rests was awful presumptuous. My family; Susan my wife, my three step-sons with girl friends and my brother-in-law decided to drive down from St. Paul to catch the cruise ship that was leaving from the port of New Orleans. Lunatics. 27 hours in a car with no escape. If I have to explain the downside of riding in a car with three young men who thought that if you pass gas it better make your eyes water, you are probably already sitting on the couch watching reruns of the Jerry Springer Show feeling sorry for the guests and how can I send them some money so that cousin Thelma can get married to her first cousin and who made that law anyway?

The ship was huge. 2000 passengers, each with a separate bitch: My cabin is too small; my cabin boy doesn't speak good enough English: there's blood and vomit on the carpet; I was hoping they had Louisville Slugger miniature baseball bats in the duty-free shop so I could knee-cap the lot of them. Our cabin was pretty nice if you don't suffer from claustrophobia, and while I looked pretty closely, I didn't see any blood or vomit on the lime green carpet. They had pushed together two single beds to form one medium sized bed that, if we huddled together, would separate and send us to the floor. As an added bonus, the thin foam mattress allowed us to feel every ridge on the frame below. We unpacked our clothes, and set out to explore our prison for the next week.

It was uncommonly cold for New Orleans , and the wind made me wish for a Minnesota parka, but all I packed was summer clothes, so I froze. My wife suggested we go inside after looking at the Mississippi with all the factories dumping pollution flowing past, and I said we should find a bar we could move our cot into for the next week. That thought was great until I saw the price for a pint of beer, and then I began to wonder if I could sell my mother-in-law, who joined us on this trip, and just who would be in the market for a crabby old woman whose first words when she saw my wife was “My, aren't we getting a little chubby?” or “How come your hair never looks nice?” There was a map on the television in our room, explaining exactly where we were in our journey, and when it showed us where the exact middle of the ocean was, that old bat was going to take some swimming lessons.

We had four ports of call, each looking amazingly like the last, and I had a beer at each one. I begged off touring the native ruins. It was 98 degrees with 99 percent humidity, and I had enough misery, but the rest of them didn't seem to mind being accosted by bugs and lizards. The only thing I was accosted by was prostitutes in Belize City , promising me a massage with a happy ending for 20 dollars US, but I explained to them that beer on board our ship was over six bucks a piece, and if I wanted a happy ending, I wouldn't have come on vacation. I bought the usual touristy crap: t-shirts, ashtrays, refrigerator wall magnets, in the hopes that someone will come to our house and say, “Wow! You were in Mexico ? On a cruise ship? You lucky bastard.” I would be silent about the reality of it all, and we would both smile knowingly, one green with envy, one knowing that there is truly a hell on earth.

The weather was bad on the trip back, and the crew put barf bags at holders near the elevators. Not a good sign. If you went on deck for a smoke, 60 mile an hour winds ripped the cigarette right out of your mouth. The swells on the ocean were impressive, and while I didn't get sea sick, I know now why there might have been vomit and blood on that nice lime green carpet. Throw up and commit suicide.

We're back home now, still trying to get rid of the sea legs and wondering why my head keeps sloshing back and forth. No more boats, we agreed. Fly into some all-inclusive resort where you can sit on the beach, watch the waves in the azure blue ocean, and drink margaritas until they pour out your eyeballs. When you raise your hand, the pretty native women bring you enchiladas and massage your tired, aching bones.

Next year. I can make it. I can make it.