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Multihull For Sale

44′ voyage – loaded and ready for new adventures.

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REDEMPTION is for sale. Major price reduction, now asking 325,000$. This award winning 2002 VOYAGE 440 Owner Version  is the only vessel to ever receive both the best cruising catamaran and best overall cruising sailboat awards in the same year! This vessel is extremely well built and boasts very good sailing performance. The independent judges were very impressed with the installation of all systems especially electrical and plumbing. A detailed owner’s manual is helpful with solutions to maintenance matters. If you are looking for a well cared for, superbly equipped cruising catamaran, do not overlook this opportunity. Located in Milford CT. USA

Note: this boat is not for sale to US citizens while in US waters.

Additional Specifications

Engine(s) Total Power: 80 HP SPECIFICATIONS: Designer Alex Simonis,Voogd and VOYAGE yachts Overall Length: 44.7 ft Waterline Length: 41 ft > Beam: 25.1 ft > Draft: 3.5 ft > Mast Height off DWL: 62 ft > Displacement: 20240 lbs Sail area: 1120 ft2 Water Capacity: 106 US Gal Fuel Capacity: 106 US Gal 2 x Engines: 40 Hp YANMAR Berths: 6

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Best Liveaboard Catamaran Sailboats

Last Updated by

Daniel Wade

December 28, 2023

Catamarans are an excellent choice for living on the water. Modern catamarans are more spacious than monohulls and provide all the comforts of home.

In this article, we'll cover five of the best liveaboard catamarans available on the new and used market today. We'll also cover how to choose the best and most comfortable catamaran to live aboard.

The best liveaboard catamarans are the Manta 42, the Nautitech 44, the Voyage 44, the Privilege 435, the Elba 35, and the Lagoon 380. These vessels are seaworthy, comfortable, and ideal for long-term living.

We sourced the technical specifications of these vessels from maritime records and directly from sailboat manufacturers. We also considered the opinions of sailors who live aboard these vessels and others.

Table of contents

Living on a Catamaran

Living on a catamaran has both advantages and disadvantages when compared to living on a monohull sailboat. That said, most of the challenges of living aboard a catamaran are mitigated on larger and higher-quality vessels.

Catamarans feature two hulls placed side-by-side and connected by a deck. As a result, the cabins are split between the two hulls, and you may have to go outside to get to the other cabin. Thankfully, most modern cruising catamarans have a center cockpit that connects the two hulls and often features living spaces.

Some vessels have facilities (such as the galley and table) in one cabin and sleeping areas in the other. However, some catamarans have sleeping and cooking facilities in both hulls. The configuration you choose depends on how many people attended live aboard and what layout you prefer.

Catamarans offer superior stability and motion comfort, which is a big advantage when living aboard. Overall, conditions under sail and in the harbor are likely much better aboard a properly-proportioned catamaran.

How to Choose a Liveaboard Catamaran

What qualities make a catamaran ideal for living aboard, and how do you choose the best boat? Attributes such as size and interior layout are the most important, but others such as fit and finish and seakeeping abilities should also be considered.

The best liveaboard catamarans range in size between 30 and 50 feet, width 40 feet being the comfortable average. In general, vessels smaller than 30 feet simply lack the space to include a practical interior layout.

Interior Layout

Interior layout is largely a matter of personal opinion. The most popular liveaboard catamaran features a spacious center cockpit with access to both hulls. Master bedrooms are often found in the stern and the bow of each hull, with heads in between and a galley in the center cockpit. Some catamarans feature one or more additional settees, along with storage in all areas.

Tech and Convenience

The majority of monohull sailboats were produced between the 1960s in the 1980s. This isn't the case for catamarans, as their popularity is more recent. As a result, you're likely to find considerably more modern amenities aboard. Everything from autopilot systems to bathtubs are available aboard newer catamarans.

How Much does a Liveaboard Catamaran Cost?

Catamaran prices vary widely based on age, length, and overall quality. Older vessels cost anywhere between $30,000 and $100,000. Newer and more comfortable liveaboard catamarans generally start above the $100,000 mark and extend up to $500,000 or more.

Best Catamarans to Live On

We chose the following six liveaboard catamarans based on size, interior amenities, handling, and price. These vessels are popular amongst liveaboard sailors and make exceptionally comfortable floating homes both in port and at sea.

1. Manta 42

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The first vessel on our list is an exceptional cruising catamaran that's also a comfortable place to live. The Manta 42 can be found on the used market, and it features great handling and a spacious cabin.

Unlike most catamarans, which are built overseas, the Manta 42 was produced entirely in the United States. The Florida-based company produced these vessels in the 1990s and 2000s, and they proved extremely popular with offshore cruisers.

The Manta 42 is known for its stability, hull strength, and speed. However, its cabin layout is also smart and livable. Most Manta 42s feature an asymmetrical cabin layout. The cabin has two heads located in convenient places; one on the port side across from a master berth and one on the starboard side, which is easily accessible from the cockpit. It features three berthing areas and one large sitting area, with seating and storage throughout.

The Manta 42 also has exceptional storage capacity. The vessel stores 125 gallons of fuel and a whopping 100 gallons of freshwater. It also has generous gray and black water tanks to service both heads and the galley sinks.

Overall, the Manta 42 is an excellent choice for cruising liveaboards. It's a fast, nimble, and safe vessel with ample headroom and space throughout the cabin.

Quick Facts:

• 42-foot overall length
• Large master cabins
• Built for long-term living and cruising
• High storage capacity for fuel and water
• High hull strength
• American-built
• Production ceased in the 2000s, so equipment may not be up-to-date

2. Nautitech 44

{{boat-info="/boats/nautitech-44"}}

The Nautitech 44 is the obvious choice for the number two spot on our list. This well-known cruising catamaran has a unique Center cockpit design which makes it stylish and functional.

The futuristic cockpit of the Nautitech 44 allows the crew to enjoy ample ventilation even in wet conditions. This makes it ideal for living abroad in tropical climates where rain and heat often accompany each other.

Nautitech, which is a French company, continues to produce this model due to its popularity and excellent seakeeping abilities. Prices almost always exceed $100,000, both new and used, making it one of the costlier models on the list. For the price, you get a fine interior fit and finish along with the latest comforts and conveniences.

The Nautitech 44 is available in several cabin layouts. The most popular configuration features an expansive center cockpit with below-deck living spaces, along with three berthing areas and a galley. Additionally, most of these vessels feature a large master head and several smaller heads in each of the hulls. Access to each hull through the center cockpit is easy, and the headroom is excellent.

The Nautitech 44 is a fast boat, and it's great for offshore cruising. However, hull width was sacrificed for speed and handling. This means that the hulls are slightly narrower than some of the competition. That said, it doesn't seem to bother most Nautitech owners.

• 44-foot overall length
• Large center cabin
• All-weather control cockpit
• Great ventilation
• Ample room in the hulls
• Wide hallways
• Spacious heads
• Excellent seakeeping abilities
• Expensive on the used market
• No open cockpit

3. Voyage 44

{{boat-info="/boats/voyage-44"}}

Here's a popular and spacious catamaran with some unique characteristics that make it ideal for living aboard. The Voyage 44 is a wide and stable multihull sailboat with a large center cockpit and an attractive interior layout.

The cabin of the Voyage 44 is modern and airy, taking advantage of light colors and thoughtfully designed furniture to make the most out of limited space. This is conducive to a pleasant living environment that's also easy to clean. The center cockpit also features a large, full galley.

The center cockpit stands out, as the voyage 44s exceptionally wide beam gives it plenty of room for tables, sitting areas, and other amenities. The windows let in plenty of light, in the cabin is completely weatherproof.

Below decks, the Voyage 44 features up to six separate heads and several sleeping areas. The master head, located in the bow, is one of the largest available on sailboats of this size range. The vessel features up to eight individuals sleeping areas, which is remarkable for a 44-foot boat.

The Voyage 44 is an excellent liveaboard catamaran due to its wide beam and extremely spacious living accommodations. Out of all the boats on this list, the Voyage 44 is likely the best value overall as it's relatively affordable. The Voyage 44 may be the perfect long-term liveaboard catamaran under 50 feet in length.

• Unusually wide beam
• Full master head with two showers
• Very high speeds
• Sturdy construction
• Very large center cabin
• Eight sleeping areas
• May be too wide for some marina slips

4. Privilege 435

{{boat-info="/boats/privilege-435"}}

The Alliaura Marine Privilege 435 is a simple and elegant catamaran with a comfortable interior, smart design, ingrate offshore handling characteristics. This speedy vessel is constructed with some of the finest materials available, and the overall fit and finish are excellent. Behind the center cabin, the Privilege 435 features a strong fiberglass canopy to protect the crew from spray and son.

The majority of Privilege 435s on the market were built recently, so you can expect the latest navigation and safety equipment. Additionally, the vessel is efficient and includes amenities such as multiple heads, modern utilities, and easy access to the hulls through the center cabin.

The vessel features four separate bedrooms and enough bathrooms and showers for each person (or couple). The center Cabin is wide and features comfortable seating areas, along with a full galley with a stove and a fridge. Stepping inside the Privilege 435 is like stepping inside of a vacation house, and it feels purpose-built for long-term living.

The vessel is available in relatively high numbers, though its popularity means you're likely to pay top dollar. On the used market, the vessel sells for between $250,000 to $350,000 on average. This puts it on the upper edge of our price range. But for the price, you got a long-lasting and desirable catamaran that's ready to live aboard almost immediately.

The Privilege 435 is ideal for cruising liveaboards with families or sailors who need space for guests. The interior is very comfortable and aesthetically pleasing. It has several great spaces for entertaining multiple people. On short-to-medium voyages, the Privilege 435 should be adequate for up to eight or more adults.

• 43-foot overall length
• Full-size berthing areas
• Large center galley and sitting area
• Spacious interior
• Large showers
• Great offshore handling
• Expensive, even on the used market

{{boat-info="/boats/fountaine-pajot-elba-45"}}

The Fountain Pajot Elba 45 is a modern and luxurious cruising catamaran with a high freeboard and all the living amenities you'd expect. It's a high-caliber vessel that sails as good as it looks, and it's still produced by the original manufacturer in Europe.

The Elba 45 has one of the largest center cabins of any catamaran in its size range. It features a large settee, a full galley, and access to both hulls. The cabin layout is flexible, and you can order one of several different designs. One of the most popular is the classic 'mirror' layout, where each hull has two master berthing areas, a V-berth in the bow, and two separate heads.

However, other versions are available with attached bathing facilities and additional room for storage, cooking, and other activities. One of the unique features of the Elba 45 is the addition of a V-berth bow. This berth connects directly to the master Beds, which makes for a unique but flexible sleeping arrangement.

If purchased new, the Elba 45 will set you back around $430,000 to $450,000. For the price, you get the latest technology and the finest interior and exterior materials. This is important in the long run as the best liveaboard catamarans should be built to last.

The fit and finish of this vessel are ideal for those looking for a luxurious living environment. Its accommodations are closer to that of a luxury yacht than a sailboat. As a result, the Elba 45 is a great place to live long-term and entertain guests.

• 45-foot overall length
• Multiple layouts available
• Luxury fit-and-finish
• Four cabins
• Six full-size berths
• Luxurious amenities
• Additional V-berths in bow
• Highest build quality
• Upper end of the price range

6. Lagoon 380

{{boat-info="/boats/lagoon-380"}}

The majority of suitable liveaboard catamarans are over 40 feet in length. This is because it's difficult to fit comfortable accommodations in a smaller vessel. However, the Lagoon 380 is a notable exception. This 39-foot catamaran is one of the most comfortable vessels in its class, and it features a spacious interior and excellent design.

The Lagoon 380 is a newer vessel that features modern conveniences and adheres to high safety standards. Modern manufacturing techniques make this vessel stronger and easier to maintain than its older counterparts. Additionally, owners praise its sailing characteristics in both rough and calm weather.

The spacious center cabin features a full galley and sitting area with a notably wide walking room in between. It also boasts excellent visibility, which also increases the amount of natural light in the living areas. Additionally, the center cabin features easy access to the hulls, and the mirror layout provides comfortable accommodations for eight adults.

The interior space aboard the Lagoon 380 is almost indistinguishable from catamarans between 44 and 50 feet in length. The primary difference is that, instead of the traditional two heads per hull, the Lagoon 380 only features one. That said, the heads include a large shower and plenty of room to move around.

The Lagoon 380 is the perfect solution for sailors looking for big boat accommodations in a small package. Due to its shorter length, the Lagoon 380 avoids additional fees for docking and servicing vessels over 40 feet overall.

• 39-foot overall length
• Full galley
• Under 40 feet in length
• High construction quality
• Customizable options
• Great handling
• Fewer bathrooms than some similar vessels

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• Updated: October 31, 2001

Among the 29 boats in the contest, eight were catamarans, making them the single largest category this year. The number of new models at the Annapolis shows has been rising, too; their numbers on the show docks have met or broken records for each of the last three years: from 38 multis two years ago to 42 this year and last.

The boats we sailed ranged from 34 to 57 feet. The lone cat in the mid-30s size range was the Esprit 3400, built by Creeksea Ltd. in Durban, South Africa, and designed by Prout. At the other end of the size scale was the luxurious French-built Lagoon 570.

Between 42 and 47 feet we saw six cats. Two, the Moorings 4200 and 4700, were designed by Alex Simonis and built by Robertson & Caine to Moorings charter specs, which are impressive; the boats are also sold for private use under the name Leopard 42 and 47. The EndeavourCat 44, built in Clearwater, Florida, was the most commodious of all the cats. The French-built Outremer 45, the only cat in the contest with daggerboards, was the one most stripped down and powered up for speed. In the opinion of the judges, the one boat that best blended performance, safety, and comfort into two hulls was the Voyage 440.

Of the structure, a judge said, “Every multihull takes enough time getting through the wind that you’ve got torsional loads going through the skins, and, man, this one was a tight as a good guitar body.” Of the sailplan, one judge said, “They really had their bases covered for a variety of wind ranges in a very safe way. Of the deck layout, another judge said, “Wherever you walked, you had a feeling that it was the most appropriate pathway to where you were going.” Of the systems, a judge said, “The electrical panel was absolutely 4.0, and the fuel tank forward was as fine an execution as I have ever seen.” For these reasons and others, the judges called her the Best Cruising Multihull for 2002.

But that’s not all. Said one judge, “She’s the first multihull I’ve seen that I really consider a prime yacht and a functional cruiser.” Said another, “Everything about this boat indicates that it’s seriously made for going to sea. Without any hesitation, you could hang the word ’passagemaker’ on it and your conscience would be at ease.” It’s the first time in the contest’s nine year history that the overall boat of the year award goes to a multihull. Congratulations to the folks at Voyage Yachts in Cape Town, South Africa.

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Brand: Voyage 440

The Voyage 440 model won CRUISING WORLD Boat of the Year in 2002 and Best Cruising Multihull in 2002, the first multihull ever to win the overall sailboat of the year award! he judges fairly gushed over the unmatched blend of performance, quality of construction, and attention to details necessary to qualify her as a true bluewater cruising cat. Though Voyage Yachts was anticipating this coup would boost the sales of their 4 cabin versions for their namesake charter fleet, instead they found the factory book full of orders for owner’s versions. The 2001-2004 era Voyage 440 Owner’ s versions set a standard that few other production catamarans have subsequently achieved. They are so well regarded that most have known only one or two owners since new.

There are no catamarans currently for sale by owner of this brand.

Please see our catamarans for sale by owner page for a full listing of other currently available models.

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• --> --> --> Length Overall: 17.7m | 58’ 3”
• Waterline Length: 17.6m | 57’ 9”
• Beam: 8.66m | 28’ 5”
• Draft: 1.59m | 5’ 2”
• Sail Area: 202.5 m2 | 2,179 ft2
• Displacement: 25,000 kg | 55,121 lbs
• Power: 2 x 56kW (75 hp) shaft drive
• Cruising Speed: 9 knots
• Fuel Capacity: 950L | 250 Gal
• Water Capacity: 950L | 250 Gal

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Let's Get to Know Each Other

Let's connect, why it's important to partner with a designer on your voyage 44 sail.

The design is the most critical part of your new sail. Ensuring the sail fits and performs its best is a must for our crew. The Precision Sails Design team are experts at their craft. Unlike other sail lofts all of our sailors work one-on-one with a designer to perfect their Voyage 44 sail.

No Two Voyage 44 Sails Are Alike

There are many factors that affect the performance and design of your sails. Location, sailing experience, and weather conditions all come into play when picking the perfect sail. Two mainsails made for two Voyage 44’s in California and Florida will have different designs, sailcloth, and options based on what is best for the sailor.

Taking measurements is easy. All sailors work alongside our measurement team to measure and confirm their rig specs. This helps ensure your design is flawless and allows us to extend our Perfect Fit Guarantee to all of our sailors.

Discover the best cloth for your sailing needs, our sail details, or more about how Precision Sails is leading the sail-making industry with innovative new practices.

Proudly offering the largest selection of sailcloth in the industry, our team is always available to help you find your perfect sail. Whether you're a weekend sailor, coastal cruiser, or club racer our team is ready to walk you through the process.

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Precision Sail Loft specializes in producing headsails, mainsails, spinnakers, gennakers, and code zeros. So no matter the type of sail you’re looking for, we can help. Our sails are trusted by cruisers and racers alike from around the globe. Review the sail options and craftsmanship available to customize your dream sail.

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Every sail we craft is produced to the highest standards with the best hardware, craftsmanship, and skill-set in the industry. Pair that with Precision Sails' approach to communication and your sailboat will be ready to set sail before you know it.

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As experts in design, communication, and production our team is ready to take on the task of making sails for your boat. Give us a call to get started.

“ I just received my asymmetrical spinnaker, with sock and turtle bag, along with a new 135 Genoa. The entire process was simple and both sales and the design team were in regular contact if there were any questions. The customer portal was easy to use and lets you keep track of where in the process your sails are. Great sails, great service -Graham Edwards (Facebook)

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“ Our new furling jib for a Corsair 27 Had to be specially designed due to the height of the furler, but this was accomplished quickly and in short order we had our sail which fits beautifully and has a great shape. It’s everything we could have wanted, high tech design, thoughtfully executed and affordable.” -Nancy Y. (Yelp)

Request a Voyage 44 Quote

Looking to buy a new headsail or mainsail for your Voyage 44? Request a free quote from Precision Sails for a new custom sail. Our team will work with you to design the perfect sail for you.

Thanks for telling us a bit about yourself and your boat. Our team will send you a preliminary quote based on information we have gathered from sailors similar to you.

We will give you a call in order to narrow down the options on your quote and improve the accuracy. If you want us to call you at a specific time, feel free to schedule a time on our calendar!

Thanks for telling us a bit about yourself and your boat. Our team will reach out to offer some suggestions and get started on finding you the perfect sail!

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Crying Myself to Sleep on the Biggest Cruise Ship Ever

Seven agonizing nights aboard the Icon of the Seas

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Updated at 2:44 p.m. ET on April 6, 2024.

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MY FIRST GLIMPSE of Royal Caribbean’s Icon of the Seas, from the window of an approaching Miami cab, brings on a feeling of vertigo, nausea, amazement, and distress. I shut my eyes in defense, as my brain tells my optic nerve to try again.

The ship makes no sense, vertically or horizontally. It makes no sense on sea, or on land, or in outer space. It looks like a hodgepodge of domes and minarets, tubes and canopies, like Istanbul had it been designed by idiots. Vibrant, oversignifying colors are stacked upon other such colors, decks perched over still more decks; the only comfort is a row of lifeboats ringing its perimeter. There is no imposed order, no cogent thought, and, for those who do not harbor a totalitarian sense of gigantomania, no visual mercy. This is the biggest cruise ship ever built, and I have been tasked with witnessing its inaugural voyage.

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“Author embarks on their first cruise-ship voyage” has been a staple of American essay writing for almost three decades, beginning with David Foster Wallace’s “A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again,” which was first published in 1996 under the title “Shipping Out.” Since then, many admirable writers have widened and diversified the genre. Usually the essayist commissioned to take to the sea is in their first or second flush of youth and is ready to sharpen their wit against the hull of the offending vessel. I am 51, old and tired, having seen much of the world as a former travel journalist, and mostly what I do in both life and prose is shrug while muttering to my imaginary dachshund, “This too shall pass.” But the Icon of the Seas will not countenance a shrug. The Icon of the Seas is the Linda Loman of cruise ships, exclaiming that attention must be paid. And here I am in late January with my one piece of luggage and useless gray winter jacket and passport, zipping through the Port of Miami en route to the gangway that will separate me from the bulk of North America for more than seven days, ready to pay it in full.

The aforementioned gangway opens up directly onto a thriving mall (I will soon learn it is imperiously called the “Royal Promenade”), presently filled with yapping passengers beneath a ceiling studded with balloons ready to drop. Crew members from every part of the global South, as well as a few Balkans, are shepherding us along while pressing flutes of champagne into our hands. By a humming Starbucks, I drink as many of these as I can and prepare to find my cabin. I show my blue Suite Sky SeaPass Card (more on this later, much more) to a smiling woman from the Philippines, and she tells me to go “aft.” Which is where, now? As someone who has rarely sailed on a vessel grander than the Staten Island Ferry, I am confused. It turns out that the aft is the stern of the ship, or, for those of us who don’t know what a stern or an aft are, its ass. The nose of the ship, responsible for separating the waves before it, is also called a bow, and is marked for passengers as the FWD , or forward. The part of the contemporary sailing vessel where the malls are clustered is called the midship. I trust that you have enjoyed this nautical lesson.

I ascend via elevator to my suite on Deck 11. This is where I encounter my first terrible surprise. My suite windows and balcony do not face the ocean. Instead, they look out onto another shopping mall. This mall is the one that’s called Central Park, perhaps in homage to the Olmsted-designed bit of greenery in the middle of my hometown. Although on land I would be delighted to own a suite with Central Park views, here I am deeply depressed. To sail on a ship and not wake up to a vast blue carpet of ocean? Unthinkable.

Allow me a brief preamble here. The story you are reading was commissioned at a moment when most staterooms on the Icon were sold out. In fact, so enthralled by the prospect of this voyage were hard-core mariners that the ship’s entire inventory of guest rooms (the Icon can accommodate up to 7,600 passengers, but its inaugural journey was reduced to 5,000 or so for a less crowded experience) was almost immediately sold out. Hence, this publication was faced with the shocking prospect of paying nearly $19,000 to procure for this solitary passenger an entire suite—not including drinking expenses—all for the privilege of bringing you this article. But the suite in question doesn’t even have a view of the ocean! I sit down hard on my soft bed. Nineteen thousand dollars for this .

The viewless suite does have its pluses. In addition to all the Malin+Goetz products in my dual bathrooms, I am granted use of a dedicated Suite Deck lounge; access to Coastal Kitchen, a superior restaurant for Suites passengers; complimentary VOOM SM Surf & Stream (“the fastest Internet at Sea”) “for one device per person for the whole cruise duration”; a pair of bathrobes (one of which comes prestained with what looks like a large expectoration by the greenest lizard on Earth); and use of the Grove Suite Sun, an area on Decks 18 and 19 with food and deck chairs reserved exclusively for Suite passengers. I also get reserved seating for a performance of The Wizard of Oz , an ice-skating tribute to the periodic table, and similar provocations. The very color of my Suite Sky SeaPass Card, an oceanic blue as opposed to the cloying royal purple of the standard non-Suite passenger, will soon provoke envy and admiration. But as high as my status may be, there are those on board who have much higher status still, and I will soon learn to bow before them.

In preparation for sailing, I have “priced in,” as they say on Wall Street, the possibility that I may come from a somewhat different monde than many of the other cruisers. Without falling into stereotypes or preconceptions, I prepare myself for a friendly outspokenness on the part of my fellow seafarers that may not comply with modern DEI standards. I believe in meeting people halfway, and so the day before flying down to Miami, I visited what remains of Little Italy to purchase a popular T-shirt that reads DADDY’S LITTLE MEATBALL across the breast in the colors of the Italian flag. My wife recommended that I bring one of my many T-shirts featuring Snoopy and the Peanuts gang, as all Americans love the beagle and his friends. But I naively thought that my meatball T-shirt would be more suitable for conversation-starting. “Oh, and who is your ‘daddy’?” some might ask upon seeing it. “And how long have you been his ‘little meatball’?” And so on.

I put on my meatball T-shirt and head for one of the dining rooms to get a late lunch. In the elevator, I stick out my chest for all to read the funny legend upon it, but soon I realize that despite its burnished tricolor letters, no one takes note. More to the point, no one takes note of me. Despite my attempts at bridge building, the very sight of me (small, ethnic, without a cap bearing the name of a football team) elicits no reaction from other passengers. Most often, they will small-talk over me as if I don’t exist. This brings to mind the travails of David Foster Wallace , who felt so ostracized by his fellow passengers that he retreated to his cabin for much of his voyage. And Wallace was raised primarily in the Midwest and was a much larger, more American-looking meatball than I am. If he couldn’t talk to these people, how will I? What if I leave this ship without making any friends at all, despite my T-shirt? I am a social creature, and the prospect of seven days alone and apart is saddening. Wallace’s stateroom, at least, had a view of the ocean, a kind of cheap eternity.

Worse awaits me in the dining room. This is a large, multichandeliered room where I attended my safety training (I was shown how to put on a flotation vest; it is a very simple procedure). But the maître d’ politely refuses me entry in an English that seems to verge on another language. “I’m sorry, this is only for pendejos ,” he seems to be saying. I push back politely and he repeats himself. Pendejos ? Piranhas? There’s some kind of P-word to which I am not attuned. Meanwhile elderly passengers stream right past, powered by their limbs, walkers, and electric wheelchairs. “It is only pendejo dining today, sir.” “But I have a suite!” I say, already starting to catch on to the ship’s class system. He examines my card again. “But you are not a pendejo ,” he confirms. I am wearing a DADDY’S LITTLE MEATBALL T-shirt, I want to say to him. I am the essence of pendejo .

Eventually, I give up and head to the plebeian buffet on Deck 15, which has an aquatic-styled name I have now forgotten. Before gaining entry to this endless cornucopia of reheated food, one passes a washing station of many sinks and soap dispensers, and perhaps the most intriguing character on the entire ship. He is Mr. Washy Washy—or, according to his name tag, Nielbert of the Philippines—and he is dressed as a taco (on other occasions, I’ll see him dressed as a burger). Mr. Washy Washy performs an eponymous song in spirited, indeed flamboyant English: “Washy, washy, wash your hands, WASHY WASHY!” The dangers of norovirus and COVID on a cruise ship this size (a giant fellow ship was stricken with the former right after my voyage) makes Mr. Washy Washy an essential member of the crew. The problem lies with the food at the end of Washy’s rainbow. The buffet is groaning with what sounds like sophisticated dishes—marinated octopus, boiled egg with anchovy, chorizo, lobster claws—but every animal tastes tragically the same, as if there was only one creature available at the market, a “cruisipus” bred specifically for Royal Caribbean dining. The “vegetables” are no better. I pick up a tomato slice and look right through it. It tastes like cellophane. I sit alone, apart from the couples and parents with gaggles of children, as “We Are Family” echoes across the buffet space.

I may have failed to mention that all this time, the Icon of the Seas has not left port. As the fiery mango of the subtropical setting sun makes Miami’s condo skyline even more apocalyptic, the ship shoves off beneath a perfunctory display of fireworks. After the sun sets, in the far, dark distance, another circus-lit cruise ship ruptures the waves before us. We glance at it with pity, because it is by definition a smaller ship than our own. I am on Deck 15, outside the buffet and overlooking a bunch of pools (the Icon has seven of them), drinking a frilly drink that I got from one of the bars (the Icon has 15 of them), still too shy to speak to anyone, despite Sister Sledge’s assertion that all on the ship are somehow related.

Kim Brooks: On failing the family vacation

The ship’s passage away from Ron DeSantis’s Florida provides no frisson, no sense of developing “sea legs,” as the ship is too large to register the presence of waves unless a mighty wind adds significant chop. It is time for me to register the presence of the 5,000 passengers around me, even if they refuse to register mine. My fellow travelers have prepared for this trip with personally decorated T-shirts celebrating the importance of this voyage. The simplest ones say ICON INAUGURAL ’24 on the back and the family name on the front. Others attest to an over-the-top love of cruise ships: WARNING! MAY START TALKING ABOUT CRUISING . Still others are artisanally designed and celebrate lifetimes spent married while cruising (on ships, of course). A couple possibly in their 90s are wearing shirts whose backs feature a drawing of a cruise liner, two flamingos with ostensibly male and female characteristics, and the legend “ HUSBAND AND WIFE Cruising Partners FOR LIFE WE MAY NOT HAVE IT All Together BUT TOGETHER WE HAVE IT ALL .” (The words not in all caps have been written in cursive.) A real journalist or a more intrepid conversationalist would have gone up to the couple and asked them to explain the longevity of their marriage vis-à-vis their love of cruising. But instead I head to my mall suite, take off my meatball T-shirt, and allow the first tears of the cruise to roll down my cheeks slowly enough that I briefly fall asleep amid the moisture and salt.

I WAKE UP with a hangover. Oh God. Right. I cannot believe all of that happened last night. A name floats into my cobwebbed, nauseated brain: “Ayn Rand.” Jesus Christ.

I breakfast alone at the Coastal Kitchen. The coffee tastes fine and the eggs came out of a bird. The ship rolls slightly this morning; I can feel it in my thighs and my schlong, the parts of me that are most receptive to danger.

I had a dangerous conversation last night. After the sun set and we were at least 50 miles from shore (most modern cruise ships sail at about 23 miles an hour), I lay in bed softly hiccupping, my arms stretched out exactly like Jesus on the cross, the sound of the distant waves missing from my mall-facing suite, replaced by the hum of air-conditioning and children shouting in Spanish through the vents of my two bathrooms. I decided this passivity was unacceptable. As an immigrant, I feel duty-bound to complete the tasks I am paid for, which means reaching out and trying to understand my fellow cruisers. So I put on a normal James Perse T-shirt and headed for one of the bars on the Royal Promenade—the Schooner Bar, it was called, if memory serves correctly.

I sat at the bar for a martini and two Negronis. An old man with thick, hairy forearms drank next to me, very silent and Hemingwaylike, while a dreadlocked piano player tinkled out a series of excellent Elton John covers. To my right, a young white couple—he in floral shorts, she in a light, summery miniskirt with a fearsome diamond ring, neither of them in football regalia—chatted with an elderly couple. Do it , I commanded myself. Open your mouth. Speak! Speak without being spoken to. Initiate. A sentence fragment caught my ear from the young woman, “Cherry Hill.” This is a suburb of Philadelphia in New Jersey, and I had once been there for a reading at a synagogue. “Excuse me,” I said gently to her. “Did you just mention Cherry Hill? It’s a lovely place.”

As it turned out, the couple now lived in Fort Lauderdale (the number of Floridians on the cruise surprised me, given that Southern Florida is itself a kind of cruise ship, albeit one slowly sinking), but soon they were talking with me exclusively—the man potbellied, with a chin like a hard-boiled egg; the woman as svelte as if she were one of the many Ukrainian members of the crew—the elderly couple next to them forgotten. This felt as groundbreaking as the first time I dared to address an American in his native tongue, as a child on a bus in Queens (“On my foot you are standing, Mister”).

“I don’t want to talk politics,” the man said. “But they’re going to eighty-six Biden and put Michelle in.”

I considered the contradictions of his opening conversational gambit, but decided to play along. “People like Michelle,” I said, testing the waters. The husband sneered, but the wife charitably put forward that the former first lady was “more personable” than Joe Biden. “They’re gonna eighty-six Biden,” the husband repeated. “He can’t put a sentence together.”

After I mentioned that I was a writer—though I presented myself as a writer of teleplays instead of novels and articles such as this one—the husband told me his favorite writer was Ayn Rand. “Ayn Rand, she came here with nothing,” the husband said. “I work with a lot of Cubans, so …” I wondered if I should mention what I usually do to ingratiate myself with Republicans or libertarians: the fact that my finances improved after pass-through corporations were taxed differently under Donald Trump. Instead, I ordered another drink and the couple did the same, and I told him that Rand and I were born in the same city, St. Petersburg/Leningrad, and that my family also came here with nothing. Now the bonding and drinking began in earnest, and several more rounds appeared. Until it all fell apart.

Read: Gary Shteyngart on watching Russian television for five days straight

My new friend, whom I will refer to as Ayn, called out to a buddy of his across the bar, and suddenly a young couple, both covered in tattoos, appeared next to us. “He fucking punked me,” Ayn’s frat-boy-like friend called out as he put his arm around Ayn, while his sizable partner sizzled up to Mrs. Rand. Both of them had a look I have never seen on land—their eyes projecting absence and enmity in equal measure. In the ’90s, I drank with Russian soldiers fresh from Chechnya and wandered the streets of wartime Zagreb, but I have never seen such undisguised hostility toward both me and perhaps the universe at large. I was briefly introduced to this psychopathic pair, but neither of them wanted to have anything to do with me, and the tattooed woman would not even reveal her Christian name to me (she pretended to have the same first name as Mrs. Rand). To impress his tattooed friends, Ayn made fun of the fact that as a television writer, I’d worked on the series Succession (which, it would turn out, practically nobody on the ship had watched), instead of the far more palatable, in his eyes, zombie drama of last year. And then my new friends drifted away from me into an angry private conversation—“He punked me!”—as I ordered another drink for myself, scared of the dead-eyed arrivals whose gaze never registered in the dim wattage of the Schooner Bar, whose terrifying voices and hollow laughs grated like unoiled gears against the crooning of “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road.”

But today is a new day for me and my hangover. After breakfast, I explore the ship’s so-called neighborhoods . There’s the AquaDome, where one can find a food hall and an acrobatic sound-and-light aquatic show. Central Park has a premium steak house, a sushi joint, and a used Rolex that can be bought for $8,000 on land here proudly offered at $17,000. There’s the aforementioned Royal Promenade, where I had drunk with the Rands, and where a pair of dueling pianos duel well into the night. There’s Surfside, a kids’ neighborhood full of sugary garbage, which looks out onto the frothy trail that the behemoth leaves behind itself. Thrill Island refers to the collection of tubes that clutter the ass of the ship and offer passengers six waterslides and a surfing simulation. There’s the Hideaway, an adult zone that plays music from a vomit-slathered, Brit-filled Alicante nightclub circa 1996 and proves a big favorite with groups of young Latin American customers. And, most hurtfully, there’s the Suite Neighborhood.

I say hurtfully because as a Suite passenger I should be here, though my particular suite is far from the others. Whereas I am stuck amid the riffraff of Deck 11, this section is on the highborn Decks 16 and 17, and in passing, I peek into the spacious, tall-ceilinged staterooms from the hallway, dazzled by the glint of the waves and sun. For $75,000, one multifloor suite even comes with its own slide between floors, so that a family may enjoy this particular terror in private. There is a quiet splendor to the Suite Neighborhood. I see fewer stickers and signs and drawings than in my own neighborhood—for example, MIKE AND DIANA PROUDLY SERVED U.S. MARINE CORPS RETIRED . No one here needs to announce their branch of service or rank; they are simply Suites, and this is where they belong. Once again, despite my hard work and perseverance, I have been disallowed from the true American elite. Once again, I am “Not our class, dear.” I am reminded of watching The Love Boat on my grandmother’s Zenith, which either was given to her or we found in the trash (I get our many malfunctioning Zeniths confused) and whose tube got so hot, I would put little chunks of government cheese on a thin tissue atop it to give our welfare treat a pleasant, Reagan-era gooeyness. I could not understand English well enough then to catch the nuances of that seafaring program, but I knew that there were differences in the status of the passengers, and that sometimes those differences made them sad. Still, this ship, this plenty—every few steps, there are complimentary nachos or milkshakes or gyros on offer—was the fatty fuel of my childhood dreams. If only I had remained a child.

I walk around the outdoor decks looking for company. There is a middle-aged African American couple who always seem to be asleep in each other’s arms, probably exhausted from the late capitalism they regularly encounter on land. There is far more diversity on this ship than I expected. Many couples are a testament to Loving v. Virginia , and there is a large group of folks whose T-shirts read MELANIN AT SEA / IT’S THE MELANIN FOR ME . I smile when I see them, but then some young kids from the group makes Mr. Washy Washy do a cruel, caricatured “Burger Dance” (today he is in his burger getup), and I think, Well, so much for intersectionality .

At the infinity pool on Deck 17, I spot some elderly women who could be ethnic and from my part of the world, and so I jump in. I am proved correct! Many of them seem to be originally from Queens (“Corona was still great when it was all Italian”), though they are now spread across the tristate area. We bond over the way “Ron-kon-koma” sounds when announced in Penn Station.

“Everyone is here for a different reason,” one of them tells me. She and her ex-husband last sailed together four years ago to prove to themselves that their marriage was truly over. Her 15-year-old son lost his virginity to “an Irish young lady” while their ship was moored in Ravenna, Italy. The gaggle of old-timers competes to tell me their favorite cruising stories and tips. “A guy proposed in Central Park a couple of years ago”—many Royal Caribbean ships apparently have this ridiculous communal area—“and she ran away screaming!” “If you’re diamond-class, you get four drinks for free.” “A different kind of passenger sails out of Bayonne.” (This, perhaps, is racially coded.) “Sometimes, if you tip the bartender $5, your next drink will be free.”

“Everyone’s here for a different reason,” the woman whose marriage ended on a cruise tells me again. “Some people are here for bad reasons—the drinkers and the gamblers. Some people are here for medical reasons.” I have seen more than a few oxygen tanks and at least one woman clearly undergoing very serious chemo. Some T-shirts celebrate good news about a cancer diagnosis. This might be someone’s last cruise or week on Earth. For these women, who have spent months, if not years, at sea, cruising is a ritual as well as a life cycle: first love, last love, marriage, divorce, death.

Read: The last place on Earth any tourist should go

I have talked with these women for so long, tonight I promise myself that after a sad solitary dinner I will not try to seek out company at the bars in the mall or the adult-themed Hideaway. I have enough material to fulfill my duties to this publication. As I approach my orphaned suite, I run into the aggro young people who stole Mr. and Mrs. Rand away from me the night before. The tattooed apparitions pass me without a glance. She is singing something violent about “Stuttering Stanley” (a character in a popular horror movie, as I discover with my complimentary VOOM SM Surf & Stream Internet at Sea) and he’s loudly shouting about “all the money I’ve lost,” presumably at the casino in the bowels of the ship.

So these bent psychos out of a Cormac McCarthy novel are angrily inhabiting my deck. As I mewl myself to sleep, I envision a limited series for HBO or some other streamer, a kind of low-rent White Lotus , where several aggressive couples conspire to throw a shy intellectual interloper overboard. I type the scenario into my phone. As I fall asleep, I think of what the woman who recently divorced her husband and whose son became a man through the good offices of the Irish Republic told me while I was hoisting myself out of the infinity pool. “I’m here because I’m an explorer. I’m here because I’m trying something new.” What if I allowed myself to believe in her fantasy?

“YOU REALLY STARTED AT THE TOP,” they tell me. I’m at the Coastal Kitchen for my eggs and corned-beef hash, and the maître d’ has slotted me in between two couples. Fueled by coffee or perhaps intrigued by my relative youth, they strike up a conversation with me. As always, people are shocked that this is my first cruise. They contrast the Icon favorably with all the preceding liners in the Royal Caribbean fleet, usually commenting on the efficiency of the elevators that hurl us from deck to deck (as in many large corporate buildings, the elevators ask you to choose a floor and then direct you to one of many lifts). The couple to my right, from Palo Alto—he refers to his “porn mustache” and calls his wife “my cougar” because she is two years older—tell me they are “Pandemic Pinnacles.”

This is the day that my eyes will be opened. Pinnacles , it is explained to me over translucent cantaloupe, have sailed with Royal Caribbean for 700 ungodly nights. Pandemic Pinnacles took advantage of the two-for-one accrual rate of Pinnacle points during the pandemic, when sailing on a cruise ship was even more ill-advised, to catapult themselves into Pinnacle status.

Because of the importance of the inaugural voyage of the world’s largest cruise liner, more than 200 Pinnacles are on this ship, a startling number, it seems. Mrs. Palo Alto takes out a golden badge that I have seen affixed over many a breast, which reads CROWN AND ANCHOR SOCIETY along with her name. This is the coveted badge of the Pinnacle. “You should hear all the whining in Guest Services,” her husband tells me. Apparently, the Pinnacles who are not also Suites like us are all trying to use their status to get into Coastal Kitchen, our elite restaurant. Even a Pinnacle needs to be a Suite to access this level of corned-beef hash.

“We’re just baby Pinnacles,” Mrs. Palo Alto tells me, describing a kind of internal class struggle among the Pinnacle elite for ever higher status.

And now I understand what the maître d’ was saying to me on the first day of my cruise. He wasn’t saying “ pendejo .” He was saying “Pinnacle.” The dining room was for Pinnacles only, all those older people rolling in like the tide on their motorized scooters.

And now I understand something else: This whole thing is a cult. And like most cults, it can’t help but mirror the endless American fight for status. Like Keith Raniere’s NXIVM, where different-colored sashes were given out to connote rank among Raniere’s branded acolytes, this is an endless competition among Pinnacles, Suites, Diamond-Plusers, and facing-the-mall, no-balcony purple SeaPass Card peasants, not to mention the many distinctions within each category. The more you cruise, the higher your status. No wonder a section of the Royal Promenade is devoted to getting passengers to book their next cruise during the one they should be enjoying now. No wonder desperate Royal Caribbean offers (“FINAL HOURS”) crowded my email account weeks before I set sail. No wonder the ship’s jewelry store, the Royal Bling, is selling a $100,000 golden chalice that will entitle its owner to drink free on Royal Caribbean cruises for life. (One passenger was already gaming out whether her 28-year-old son was young enough to “just about earn out” on the chalice or if that ship had sailed.) No wonder this ship was sold out months before departure , and we had to pay $19,000 for a horrid suite away from the Suite Neighborhood. No wonder the most mythical hero of Royal Caribbean lore is someone named Super Mario, who has cruised so often, he now has his own working desk on many ships. This whole experience is part cult, part nautical pyramid scheme.

From the June 2014 issue: Ship of wonks

“The toilets are amazing,” the Palo Altos are telling me. “One flush and you’re done.” “They don’t understand how energy-efficient these ships are,” the husband of the other couple is telling me. “They got the LNG”—liquefied natural gas, which is supposed to make the Icon a boon to the environment (a concept widely disputed and sometimes ridiculed by environmentalists).

But I’m thinking along a different line of attack as I spear my last pallid slice of melon. For my streaming limited series, a Pinnacle would have to get killed by either an outright peasant or a Suite without an ocean view. I tell my breakfast companions my idea.

“Oh, for sure a Pinnacle would have to be killed,” Mr. Palo Alto, the Pandemic Pinnacle, says, touching his porn mustache thoughtfully as his wife nods.

“THAT’S RIGHT, IT’S your time, buddy!” Hubert, my fun-loving Panamanian cabin attendant, shouts as I step out of my suite in a robe. “Take it easy, buddy!”

I have come up with a new dressing strategy. Instead of trying to impress with my choice of T-shirts, I have decided to start wearing a robe, as one does at a resort property on land, with a proper spa and hammam. The response among my fellow cruisers has been ecstatic. “Look at you in the robe!” Mr. Rand cries out as we pass each other by the Thrill Island aqua park. “You’re living the cruise life! You know, you really drank me under the table that night.” I laugh as we part ways, but my soul cries out, Please spend more time with me, Mr. and Mrs. Rand; I so need the company .

In my white robe, I am a stately presence, a refugee from a better limited series, a one-man crossover episode. (Only Suites are granted these robes to begin with.) Today, I will try many of the activities these ships have on offer to provide their clientele with a sense of never-ceasing motion. Because I am already at Thrill Island, I decide to climb the staircase to what looks like a mast on an old-fashioned ship (terrified, because I am afraid of heights) to try a ride called “Storm Chasers,” which is part of the “Category 6” water park, named in honor of one of the storms that may someday do away with the Port of Miami entirely. Storm Chasers consists of falling from the “mast” down a long, twisting neon tube filled with water, like being the camera inside your own colonoscopy, as you hold on to the handles of a mat, hoping not to die. The tube then flops you down headfirst into a trough of water, a Royal Caribbean baptism. It both knocks my breath out and makes me sad.

In keeping with the aquatic theme, I attend a show at the AquaDome. To the sound of “Live and Let Die,” a man in a harness gyrates to and fro in the sultry air. I saw something very similar in the back rooms of the famed Berghain club in early-aughts Berlin. Soon another harnessed man is gyrating next to the first. Ja , I think to myself, I know how this ends. Now will come the fisting , natürlich . But the show soon devolves into the usual Marvel-film-grade nonsense, with too much light and sound signifying nichts . If any fisting is happening, it is probably in the Suite Neighborhood, inside a cabin marked with an upside-down pineapple, which I understand means a couple are ready to swing, and I will see none of it.

I go to the ice show, which is a kind of homage—if that’s possible—to the periodic table, done with the style and pomp and masterful precision that would please the likes of Kim Jong Un, if only he could afford Royal Caribbean talent. At one point, the dancers skate to the theme song of Succession . “See that!” I want to say to my fellow Suites—at “cultural” events, we have a special section reserved for us away from the commoners—“ Succession ! It’s even better than the zombie show! Open your minds!”

Finally, I visit a comedy revue in an enormous and too brightly lit version of an “intimate,” per Royal Caribbean literature, “Manhattan comedy club.” Many of the jokes are about the cruising life. “I’ve lived on ships for 20 years,” one of the middle-aged comedians says. “I can only see so many Filipino homosexuals dressed as a taco.” He pauses while the audience laughs. “I am so fired tonight,” he says. He segues into a Trump impression and then Biden falling asleep at the microphone, which gets the most laughs. “Anyone here from Fort Leonard Wood?” another comedian asks. Half the crowd seems to cheer. As I fall asleep that night, I realize another connection I have failed to make, and one that may explain some of the diversity on this vessel—many of its passengers have served in the military.

As a coddled passenger with a suite, I feel like I am starting to understand what it means to have a rank and be constantly reminded of it. There are many espresso makers , I think as I look across the expanse of my officer-grade quarters before closing my eyes, but this one is mine .

A shocking sight greets me beyond the pools of Deck 17 as I saunter over to the Coastal Kitchen for my morning intake of slightly sour Americanos. A tiny city beneath a series of perfectly pressed green mountains. Land! We have docked for a brief respite in Basseterre, the capital of St. Kitts and Nevis. I wolf down my egg scramble to be one of the first passengers off the ship. Once past the gangway, I barely refrain from kissing the ground. I rush into the sights and sounds of this scruffy island city, sampling incredible conch curry and buckets of non-Starbucks coffee. How wonderful it is to be where God intended humans to be: on land. After all, I am neither a fish nor a mall rat. This is my natural environment. Basseterre may not be Havana, but there are signs of human ingenuity and desire everywhere you look. The Black Table Grill Has been Relocated to Soho Village, Market Street, Directly Behind of, Gary’s Fruits and Flower Shop. Signed. THE PORK MAN reads a sign stuck to a wall. Now, that is how you write a sign. A real sign, not the come-ons for overpriced Rolexes that blink across the screens of the Royal Promenade.

“Hey, tie your shoestring!” a pair of laughing ladies shout to me across the street.

“Thank you!” I shout back. Shoestring! “Thank you very much.”

A man in Independence Square Park comes by and asks if I want to play with his monkey. I haven’t heard that pickup line since the Penn Station of the 1980s. But then he pulls a real monkey out of a bag. The monkey is wearing a diaper and looks insane. Wonderful , I think, just wonderful! There is so much life here. I email my editor asking if I can remain on St. Kitts and allow the Icon to sail off into the horizon without me. I have even priced a flight home at less than $300, and I have enough material from the first four days on the cruise to write the entire story. “It would be funny …” my editor replies. “Now get on the boat.”

As I slink back to the ship after my brief jailbreak, the locals stand under umbrellas to gaze at and photograph the boat that towers over their small capital city. The limousines of the prime minister and his lackeys are parked beside the gangway. St. Kitts, I’ve been told, is one of the few islands that would allow a ship of this size to dock.

“We hear about all the waterslides,” a sweet young server in one of the cafés told me. “We wish we could go on the ship, but we have to work.”

“I want to stay on your island,” I replied. “I love it here.”

But she didn’t understand how I could possibly mean that.

“WASHY, WASHY, so you don’t get stinky, stinky!” kids are singing outside the AquaDome, while their adult minders look on in disapproval, perhaps worried that Mr. Washy Washy is grooming them into a life of gayness. I heard a southern couple skip the buffet entirely out of fear of Mr. Washy Washy.

Meanwhile, I have found a new watering hole for myself, the Swim & Tonic, the biggest swim-up bar on any cruise ship in the world. Drinking next to full-size, nearly naked Americans takes away one’s own self-consciousness. The men have curvaceous mom bodies. The women are equally un-shy about their sprawling physiques.

Today I’ve befriended a bald man with many children who tells me that all of the little trinkets that Royal Caribbean has left us in our staterooms and suites are worth a fortune on eBay. “Eighty dollars for the water bottle, 60 for the lanyard,” the man says. “This is a cult.”

“Tell me about it,” I say. There is, however, a clientele for whom this cruise makes perfect sense. For a large middle-class family (he works in “supply chains”), seven days in a lower-tier cabin—which starts at $1,800 a person—allow the parents to drop off their children in Surfside, where I imagine many young Filipina crew members will take care of them, while the parents are free to get drunk at a swim-up bar and maybe even get intimate in their cabin. Cruise ships have become, for a certain kind of hardworking family, a form of subsidized child care.

There is another man I would like to befriend at the Swim & Tonic, a tall, bald fellow who is perpetually inebriated and who wears a necklace studded with little rubber duckies in sunglasses, which, I am told, is a sort of secret handshake for cruise aficionados. Tomorrow, I will spend more time with him, but first the ship docks at St. Thomas, in the U.S. Virgin Islands. Charlotte Amalie, the capital, is more charming in name than in presence, but I still all but jump off the ship to score a juicy oxtail and plantains at the well-known Petite Pump Room, overlooking the harbor. From one of the highest points in the small city, the Icon of the Seas appears bigger than the surrounding hills.

I usually tan very evenly, but something about the discombobulation of life at sea makes me forget the regular application of sunscreen. As I walk down the streets of Charlotte Amalie in my fluorescent Icon of the Seas cap, an old Rastafarian stares me down. “Redneck,” he hisses.

“No,” I want to tell him, as I bring a hand up to my red neck, “that’s not who I am at all. On my island, Mannahatta, as Whitman would have it, I am an interesting person living within an engaging artistic milieu. I do not wish to use the Caribbean as a dumping ground for the cruise-ship industry. I love the work of Derek Walcott. You don’t understand. I am not a redneck. And if I am, they did this to me.” They meaning Royal Caribbean? Its passengers? The Rands?

“They did this to me!”

Back on the Icon, some older matrons are muttering about a run-in with passengers from the Celebrity cruise ship docked next to us, the Celebrity Apex. Although Celebrity Cruises is also owned by Royal Caribbean, I am made to understand that there is a deep fratricidal beef between passengers of the two lines. “We met a woman from the Apex,” one matron says, “and she says it was a small ship and there was nothing to do. Her face was as tight as a 19-year-old’s, she had so much surgery.” With those words, and beneath a cloudy sky, humidity shrouding our weathered faces and red necks, we set sail once again, hopefully in the direction of home.

THERE ARE BARELY 48 HOURS LEFT to the cruise, and the Icon of the Seas’ passengers are salty. They know how to work the elevators. They know the Washy Washy song by heart. They understand that the chicken gyro at “Feta Mediterranean,” in the AquaDome Market, is the least problematic form of chicken on the ship.

The passengers have shed their INAUGURAL CRUISE T-shirts and are now starting to evince political opinions. There are caps pledging to make America great again and T-shirts that celebrate words sometimes attributed to Patrick Henry: “The Constitution is not an instrument for the government to restrain the people; it is an instrument for the people to restrain the government.” With their preponderance of FAMILY FLAG FAITH FRIENDS FIREARMS T-shirts, the tables by the crepe station sometimes resemble the Capitol Rotunda on January 6. The Real Anthony Fauci , by Robert F. Kennedy Jr., appears to be a popular form of literature, especially among young men with very complicated versions of the American flag on their T-shirts. Other opinions blend the personal and the political. “Someone needs to kill Washy guy, right?” a well-dressed man in the elevator tells me, his gray eyes radiating nothing. “Just beat him to death. Am I right?” I overhear the male member of a young couple whisper, “There goes that freak” as I saunter by in my white spa robe, and I decide to retire it for the rest of the cruise.

I visit the Royal Bling to see up close the $100,000 golden chalice that entitles you to free drinks on Royal Caribbean forever. The pleasant Serbian saleslady explains that the chalice is actually gold-plated and covered in white zirconia instead of diamonds, as it would otherwise cost $1 million. “If you already have everything,” she explains, “this is one more thing you can get.”

I believe that anyone who works for Royal Caribbean should be entitled to immediate American citizenship. They already speak English better than most of the passengers and, per the Serbian lady’s sales pitch above, better understand what America is as well. Crew members like my Panamanian cabin attendant seem to work 24 hours a day. A waiter from New Delhi tells me that his contract is six months and three weeks long. After a cruise ends, he says, “in a few hours, we start again for the next cruise.” At the end of the half a year at sea, he is allowed a two-to-three-month stay at home with his family. As of 2019, the median income for crew members was somewhere in the vicinity of $20,000, according to a major business publication. Royal Caribbean would not share the current median salary for its crew members, but I am certain that it amounts to a fraction of the cost of a Royal Bling gold-plated, zirconia-studded chalice.

And because most of the Icon’s hyper-sanitized spaces are just a frittata away from being a Delta lounge, one forgets that there are actual sailors on this ship, charged with the herculean task of docking it in port. “Having driven 100,000-ton aircraft carriers throughout my career,” retired Admiral James G. Stavridis, the former NATO Supreme Allied Commander Europe, writes to me, “I’m not sure I would even know where to begin with trying to control a sea monster like this one nearly three times the size.” (I first met Stavridis while touring Army bases in Germany more than a decade ago.)

Today, I decide to head to the hot tub near Swim & Tonic, where some of the ship’s drunkest reprobates seem to gather (the other tubs are filled with families and couples). The talk here, like everywhere else on the ship, concerns football, a sport about which I know nothing. It is apparent that four teams have recently competed in some kind of finals for the year, and that two of them will now face off in the championship. Often when people on the Icon speak, I will try to repeat the last thing they said with a laugh or a nod of disbelief. “Yes, 20-yard line! Ha!” “Oh my God, of course, scrimmage.”

Soon we are joined in the hot tub by the late-middle-age drunk guy with the duck necklace. He is wearing a bucket hat with the legend HAWKEYES , which, I soon gather, is yet another football team. “All right, who turned me in?” Duck Necklace says as he plops into the tub beside us. “I get a call in the morning,” he says. “It’s security. Can you come down to the dining room by 10 a.m.? You need to stay away from the members of this religious family.” Apparently, the gregarious Duck Necklace had photobombed the wrong people. There are several families who present as evangelical Christians or practicing Muslims on the ship. One man, evidently, was not happy that Duck Necklace had made contact with his relatives. “It’s because of religious stuff; he was offended. I put my arm around 20 people a day.”

Everyone laughs. “They asked me three times if I needed medication,” he says of the security people who apparently interrogated him in full view of others having breakfast.

Another hot-tub denizen suggests that he should have asked for fentanyl. After a few more drinks, Duck Necklace begins to muse about what it would be like to fall off the ship. “I’m 62 and I’m ready to go,” he says. “I just don’t want a shark to eat me. I’m a huge God guy. I’m a Bible guy. There’s some Mayan theory squaring science stuff with religion. There is so much more to life on Earth.” We all nod into our Red Stripes.

“I never get off the ship when we dock,” he says. He tells us he lost $6,000 in the casino the other day. Later, I look him up, and it appears that on land, he’s a financial adviser in a crisp gray suit, probably a pillar of his North Chicago community.

THE OCEAN IS TEEMING with fascinating life, but on the surface it has little to teach us. The waves come and go. The horizon remains ever far away.

I am constantly told by my fellow passengers that “everybody here has a story.” Yes, I want to reply, but everybody everywhere has a story. You, the reader of this essay, have a story, and yet you’re not inclined to jump on a cruise ship and, like Duck Necklace, tell your story to others at great pitch and volume. Maybe what they’re saying is that everybody on this ship wants to have a bigger, more coherent, more interesting story than the one they’ve been given. Maybe that’s why there’s so much signage on the doors around me attesting to marriages spent on the sea. Maybe that’s why the Royal Caribbean newsletter slipped under my door tells me that “this isn’t a vacation day spent—it’s bragging rights earned.” Maybe that’s why I’m so lonely.

Today is a big day for Icon passengers. Today the ship docks at Royal Caribbean’s own Bahamian island, the Perfect Day at CocoCay. (This appears to be the actual name of the island.) A comedian at the nightclub opined on what his perfect day at CocoCay would look like—receiving oral sex while learning that his ex-wife had been killed in a car crash (big laughter). But the reality of the island is far less humorous than that.

One of the ethnic tristate ladies in the infinity pool told me that she loved CocoCay because it had exactly the same things that could be found on the ship itself. This proves to be correct. It is like the Icon, but with sand. The same tired burgers, the same colorful tubes conveying children and water from Point A to B. The same swim-up bar at its Hideaway ($140 for admittance, no children allowed; Royal Caribbean must be printing money off its clientele). “There was almost a fight at The Wizard of Oz ,” I overhear an elderly woman tell her companion on a chaise lounge. Apparently one of the passengers began recording Royal Caribbean’s intellectual property and “three guys came after him.”

I walk down a pathway to the center of the island, where a sign reads DO NOT ENTER: YOU HAVE REACHED THE BOUNDARY OF ADVENTURE . I hear an animal scampering in the bushes. A Royal Caribbean worker in an enormous golf cart soon chases me down and takes me back to the Hideaway, where I run into Mrs. Rand in a bikini. She becomes livid telling me about an altercation she had the other day with a woman over a towel and a deck chair. We Suites have special towel privileges; we do not have to hand over our SeaPass Card to score a towel. But the Rands are not Suites. “People are so entitled here,” Mrs. Rand says. “It’s like the airport with all its classes.” “You see,” I want to say, “this is where your husband’s love of Ayn Rand runs into the cruelties and arbitrary indignities of unbridled capitalism.” Instead we make plans to meet for a final drink in the Schooner Bar tonight (the Rands will stand me up).

Back on the ship, I try to do laps, but the pool (the largest on any cruise ship, naturally) is fully trashed with the detritus of American life: candy wrappers, a slowly dissolving tortilla chip, napkins. I take an extra-long shower in my suite, then walk around the perimeter of the ship on a kind of exercise track, past all the alluring lifeboats in their yellow-and-white livery. Maybe there is a dystopian angle to the HBO series that I will surely end up pitching, one with shades of WALL-E or Snowpiercer . In a collapsed world, a Royal Caribbean–like cruise liner sails from port to port, collecting new shipmates and supplies in exchange for the precious energy it has on board. (The actual Icon features a new technology that converts passengers’ poop into enough energy to power the waterslides . In the series, this shitty technology would be greatly expanded.) A very young woman (18? 19?), smart and lonely, who has only known life on the ship, walks along the same track as I do now, contemplating jumping off into the surf left by its wake. I picture reusing Duck Necklace’s words in the opening shot of the pilot. The girl is walking around the track, her eyes on the horizon; maybe she’s highborn—a Suite—and we hear the voice-over: “I’m 19 and I’m ready to go. I just don’t want a shark to eat me.”

Before the cruise is finished, I talk to Mr. Washy Washy, or Nielbert of the Philippines. He is a sweet, gentle man, and I thank him for the earworm of a song he has given me and for keeping us safe from the dreaded norovirus. “This is very important to me, getting people to wash their hands,” he tells me in his burger getup. He has dreams, as an artist and a performer, but they are limited in scope. One day he wants to dress up as a piece of bacon for the morning shift.

THE MAIDEN VOYAGE OF THE TITANIC (the Icon of the Seas is five times as large as that doomed vessel) at least offered its passengers an exciting ending to their cruise, but when I wake up on the eighth day, all I see are the gray ghosts that populate Miami’s condo skyline. Throughout my voyage, my writer friends wrote in to commiserate with me. Sloane Crosley, who once covered a three-day spa mini-cruise for Vogue , tells me she felt “so very alone … I found it very untethering.” Gideon Lewis-Kraus writes in an Instagram comment: “When Gary is done I think it’s time this genre was taken out back and shot.” And he is right. To badly paraphrase Adorno: After this, no more cruise stories. It is unfair to put a thinking person on a cruise ship. Writers typically have difficult childhoods, and it is cruel to remind them of the inherent loneliness that drove them to writing in the first place. It is also unseemly to write about the kind of people who go on cruises. Our country does not provide the education and upbringing that allow its citizens an interior life. For the creative class to point fingers at the large, breasty gentlemen adrift in tortilla-chip-laden pools of water is to gather a sour harvest of low-hanging fruit.

A day or two before I got off the ship, I decided to make use of my balcony, which I had avoided because I thought the view would only depress me further. What I found shocked me. My suite did not look out on Central Park after all. This entire time, I had been living in the ship’s Disneyland, Surfside, the neighborhood full of screaming toddlers consuming milkshakes and candy. And as I leaned out over my balcony, I beheld a slight vista of the sea and surf that I thought I had been missing. It had been there all along. The sea was frothy and infinite and blue-green beneath the span of a seagull’s wing. And though it had been trod hard by the world’s largest cruise ship, it remained.

This article appears in the May 2024 print edition with the headline “A Meatball at Sea.” When you buy a book using a link on this page, we receive a commission. Thank you for supporting The Atlantic.