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We Dedicated Few: A Guide to Debug Island

By Tatanko , September 9, 2015 in General Discussion

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Tatanko    5591.

Greetings, forum members! Earlier this week, a few of us (Odin Lowe, GaryWalnuts, and myself) made the journey out to Debug Island. It was my first time in 14 months, the last being July of 2014, and we were very excited to be able to complete the trip in the harsh conditions of 0.58. It was a voyage I never thought I was going to be able to make again, so imagine how happy I was to set foot on the island again especially in the company of two fellow adventurers. It may never happen again after 0.58 depending on how the game changes, so if you'd like to go you better do it sooner than later.

Below I will include a guide on the island and how to reach it as of 0.58, followed by a recap of our adventures this week so you've got some nice visuals to go with it. Enjoy :)

-----------------------------------------

The following is a recap of Odin, Gary, and I's adventures from the last few days:

  When you begin the voyage to Debug Island, it can be scary to see Skalisty Island shrink into nothing in the distance as you swim away from the mainland. For all you know, it will be the last time your character sees home before potentially meeting a watery grave.   -----------     Paddling out to the island can feel like an eternity. It basically is: it takes around 1 hour and 40 minutes to reach it from Skalisty.   Late into the trip you will begin seeing a "mountain" grow in height underwater until eventually you spot the peak sticking out of the water in the distance...   ----------     Finally, after an exhausting and harrowing voyage, you'll see a friendly green patch of land jutting out of the sea. At first it may not seem like much, but you'll soon realize it's larger than you think.   When approaching the island coming straight from Skalisty, you will see the narrower, taller end of the island which is helpful for spotting it while you swim.   ----------     Do a little celebration dance. You've earned it.   ----------     As I said earlier, your first glance at the island can be deceptive. Here we see a survivor at the peak of the island on the short side getting a good view.   -----------     The island isn't very big, but it's got a very distinct shape, somewhat like the letter "B." One end has a tall, narrow peak, and the other end is a little more flat and wide.   -----------     Viewed from the peak at the narrow end, the island begins to appear even larger. Here we see the broader, flatter area on the southeast end.   ----------     It's not much to look at, but it's still marvelous that such a place exists way out here.   ----------     You might be tempted to spend some time at the peak getting a view of the sea, but visitors have remarked that this just makes you feel VERY alone out here. It can be a lot like staring into the abyss, especially on a cloudy night.   ----------     Never ones to waste an opportunity, we believe we are the first to establish a camp here in this remote location (in the Standalone).   In this shot, we see Gary refueling our fireplace to get it going again.   ----------     From certain angles it may look pretty flat, but make no mistake there isn't really any flat ground here. Our camp is stable, but it sits at quite an angle.   -----------     If you're resourceful enough to bring the proper equipment, fish net traps work just fine clear out here in the sea. I was able to catch a few Carp to cook over the campfire.   ----------     Because the island is able to provide so little, you must bring everything you need -- including your own entertainment.   ----------     This far out into the sea, security is the least of our concerns. Just kick back and relax.   ----------     Telling stories around the campfire is the best way to pass time on the island. The next time we make the journey, we'll have to bring more people!   -----------     Garden plots are invisible out here, but they still work if you've got the patience to tend to them. Since rain can be collected for water and seeds can be taken from our vegetables, it is possible to feed yourself indefinitely now in this remote location.   Here, we see Odin planting some fresh crops before we take a break.   ----------     Another reminder that this island isn't as small as you might think. In this shot, we see myself and Odin waiting for Gary to run across from the other end of the island.   -----------     Just as we go to pose for a group photo, we got banned from the server we were on for "too much PVE." So sorry admin, no bloodbath on Debug Island this day...

Hope you've enjoyed the guide and the album of our journey. Stay safe out there, survivors! ;)

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Link to post, share on other sites, death by crowbar    1213.

I'm trying to determine why you brought the dress... what did you guys DO out there  Tatanko !??  :wub:

What dress? Or do you mean our firefighter outfits? The outfits we have on were necessary for the swim ;)

☣BioHaze☣    7337

Can you imagine trying to swim in wellies?

It would be like swimming with cinder blocks on your feet... :lol:

S3V3N    1402

Why don't you drive over there in the truck? Or have they been fixed not to drive underwater any more? I used to go over to Prison Island that way sometimes. If the tents stay there after restart this would be the remotest place for a base ;) 

Can you imagine trying to swim in wellies?   It would be like swimming with cinder blocks on your feet... :lol:

Our characters must have massive leg muscles :P

Why don't you drive over there in the truck? Or have they been fixed not to drive underwater any more? I used to go over to Prison Island that way sometimes. If the tents stay there after restart this would be the remotest place for a base  ;)

Trucks can't be driven there because it gets INSANELY deep at certain points, plus I don't think you can that anymore in general :(

Definitely the most remote base ever. I don't believe anyone has ever set up a camp here, so it's been fun to hang out and experiment to find out what we're able to do on the island (i.e. fishing).

odin_lowe    3686

This is probably the most interesting and fun adventure I've ever done in DayZ. It's an accomplishment in itself!!

I'm glad to have been part of it!! Thank you Tatanko, GaryWalnuts, and let's not forget Gews!  :thumbsup:

Getting banned because of too much "pve" in the Slaughterhouse server was hilarious, and ended the evening on a high note!!  :lol:

Gary on the left, me in the middle and Tatanko on the right, last shot of the night.

P.S.: I totally forgot to go back to the camp and check the tomatoes after the "ban"....  :rolleyes:

Whyherro123    2283

"banned from the server for too much PvE"

What the actual everlasting fuck?

BleedoutBill    1636

Gotta watch that gratuitous PVE. It'll get you in trouble every time! :D

Congratulations, gents. The beans are on me. :beans: :beans: :beans:

This is probably the most interesting and fun adventure I've ever done in DayZ. It's an accomplishment in itself!!   I'm glad to have been part of it!! Thank you Tatanko, GaryWalnuts, and let's not forget Gews!  :thumbsup:

Thank you sir, I had a huge amount of fun as well. This was way more fun and challenging than my lonely solo swim 14 months ago, and consequently way more rewarding. I can't wait to see what we come up with next!

"banned from the server for too much PvE"   What the actual everlasting fuck?

Yyyyyup. That seems to be the universal reaction  :lol:

Gotta watch that gratuitous PVE. It'll get you in trouble every time! :D   Congratulations, gents. The beans are on me. :beans: :beans: :beans:

You need to join us! We're going to leave the camp around and make more trips back, and having more people certainly can't hurt. We've got tons of food, equipment, etc. we just have to resupply water regularly and bring firewood with us each trip.

I know right!!  :D

The server was called "This is a Slaughterhouse", and we didn't think much of it, as being on the island renders the possibility of "kos" to zero. The admin messages when we got in were "No-kos will result in ban.", "KOS only server.", "Enjoy the kick." and a few others clearly stating that it's either you go hostile, or get kicked...

All the opposite of "pve" servers. Mostly a "troll" admin who only wants the server for himself, and instead of illegally whitelisting or putting a password on his server, simply kick or ban any players that join and don't kill other players within minutes of joining...  :rolleyes:

Sounds like a hoot! I'll find a firehouse and see what gear I can scavenge.

Firefighter clothing can only be found in the Novo city hall right now, actually. Fire stations only seem to contain the axes and helmets.

1. Firefighter Jacket

2. Firefighter Pants

3. Motobike Helmet

6. Gas Mask (optional but highly recommended, we haven't tested it without this)

7. Armband (again, optional, but it can't hurt and it's easy to make one)

Firefighter clothing can only be found in the Novo city hall right now, actually. Fire stations only seem to contain the axes and helmets.   You need: 1. Firefighter Jacket 2. Firefighter Pants 3. Motobike Helmet 4. Wellies 5. Dry Bag 6. Gas Mask (optional but highly recommended, we haven't tested it without this) 7. Armband (again, optional, but it can't hurt and it's easy to make one)

Why were the bureaucrats hoarding all of the fire fighting gear?!?!?! WTF!!!

Perhaps the Chippendales were there, entertaining the horny lovely ladies of Novo?

tobias winfro    305

Wow banned for too much PvE, that's a new one on me. Rather amusing, I do remember hearing about a server that trolled like that but dismissed it as nonsense. Good read though, beans to the OP and the others involved.

I guess I never realized this was an actual place that could be traveled to, this may just end up being my new challenge....debug island here I come

New theory: they were rebuilding civilization on Debug Island and wanted to keep the necessary clothing to themselves  :lol:

freethink    984

Does the tent fit in the drybag? I saw the thread on reddit earlier and how many trips by how many people did it take?

It does indeed fit in the drybag. The three of us made a collective four trips (Gary suicided and swam over a second time). We all swam over together technically , but I went unconscious from starvation right before reaching the island the first time. Odin stayed on the island, but Gary killed himself and swam back over with me on my second attempt. It turned out to be a good thing because we were able to bring a lot more firewood and other supplies. What you do is drop all your stuff and then suicide. Persistence works, so all that stuff you brought over is there in addition to what you bring with you when you swim back over, so it will just continue to build. I hope to add more tents :)

Here's how close I got the first time:

It does indeed fit in the drybag. The three of us made a collective four trips (Gary suicided and swam over a second time). We all swam over together technically , but I went unconscious from starvation right before reaching the island the first time. Odin stayed on the island, but Gary killed himself and swam back over with me on my second attempt. It turned out to be a good thing because we were able to bring a lot more firewood and other supplies. What you do is drop all your stuff and then suicide. Persistence works, so all that stuff you brought over is there in addition to what you bring with you when you swim back over, so it will just continue to build. I hope to add more tents :)   Here's how close I got the first time:  

I honestly don't know the tent fit in the dry bag. I'v only ever pitched a couple (not a euphemism) and I've always carried in hands. I knew they fit in mountain backpacks but apart from that i didn't have a clue.

Brilliant OP btw - love shit like this

I honestly don't know the tent fit in the dry bag. I'v only ever pitched a couple (not a euphemism) and I've always carried in hands. I knew they fit in mountain backpacks but apart from that i didn't have a clue.   Brilliant OP btw - love shit like this

Yup! They're 6 slots tall, and the Drybag is 7 slots tall, so it fits. You could bring two if you really wanted, and still have room for a couple of water bottles and cans of food :)

GaryWalnuts    1680

It was a great trip but it's not for the faint of heart.  

The preparation was an end-game task all in itself ... as with any other item in DayZ, you can't find a drybag when you absolutely need one.

Watching Tatanko die within 100m of the holy grail was heartbreaking and on that trip I was dying of starvation and freezing also, one minute more and I would've been fish food too.  Thankfully, Odin was waiting there and forcefed me before I even got me feet out of the water.

That said, it was one of my best experiences ever in Dayz, it's an unforgiving grind and well worth the hardships!

Why?  Because it's there.

Thanks to Gews earlier work we knew our heading was going to be 106* from the southeast corner of Skalisty Island.   Get swimming, set it to free-look.  Don't change your direction or you might not be able to correct it properly. In about 90 minutes you should begin to see the island and then you can change course accordingly. Pic is from a previous trip.  

Tatanko in the middle just before his untimely death, Odin on the far left.   Not knowing whether I'll survive the last leg of the journey. (Please forgive the gamma crank, I was a long strange trip  :) )  

Relaxing at the camp after getting my health back and attempting to eat disinfected worms which you can dig on the island. I didn't get sick but Odin did (we wouldn't have attempted it without charcoal tabs)    

And this randomness ....  getting kicked from a "No PVE" server was completely appropriate!      

This sums it up pretty nicely :)

ColdAtrophy    1850

I wish I had something more constructive to say but when I read "too much PVE" resulting in a ban, my blood boiled. 

Very cool though guys. Maybe I will try this at some point.

You definitely should. I'm beginning to think it might be fun to organize a larger group gathering out there before 0.59 hits Stable (which leaves plenty of time).

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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.

Australian Antarctic Division 'struggling' to use $528 million icebreaker for science voyages, review says

When the RSV Nuyina was first launched in 2021, the state-of-the-art vessel was described as a "Disneyland for scientists".

However, an internal review that the federal government initially refused to release has raised questions about whether Australia's only icebreaker is fulfilling its research capabilities.

In addition to its remit of transporting cargo, fuel and personnel to Antarctic stations, the $528 million ship is supposed to provide 60 days a year of dedicated marine science voyages.

But despite completing multiple resupply missions since coming into service, as well as a rescue operation , the Nuyina has yet to conduct a single expedition focused solely on marine science.

A previously scheduled science voyage to the marginal ice zone was cancelled last year because of delays caused by mechanical problems on the vessel.

It means the first research-focused voyage won't occur until early 2025, when scientists take part in a marine campaign at the Denman Glacier .

The dearth of science-based voyages to date is one of several issues raised in a report the federal environment department declined to release to the ABC.

The report, which was marked as "sensitive", was only made public after Liberal senator Jonathon Duniam successfully moved a motion in the Senate ordering the production of documents.

Prepared by the Department of Finance in February, the report said Australia's reliance on one icebreaker to meet multiple demands is leaving some of the ship's capabilities under-utilised.

"The [Australian Antarctic Division] is struggling to allow sufficient time on the ship to deliver marine science," the report stated.

"This is beginning to (and could continue to) raise concerns within the scientific community."

According to the report, discussions with the government were intended to take place regarding "the suitability of a single vessel operating model for AAD".

"Given Antarctic science is an important benefit that government sought from the investment in the RSV Nuyina, there may be a need to consider whether the single vessel model is going to achieve all that is required from government in the Australian Antarctic Program," it stated.

The report does not include comments about whether a second vessel should be considered to overcome the competing demands.

But Senator Duniam told the ABC alternative options should be on the government's radar.

"If we're serious about being a leader in the region — and the region is not just the Indo-Pacific, but also the Southern Ocean and the Antarctic territories — we need to make sure we do have appropriate resources deployed," he said.

"And if it does mean we need to consider an alternative model to supplement the role of the RSV Nuyina, then we should look to that.

"There are a range of measures that could be deployed, including the chartering of vessels for certain periods of time throughout the calendar year when appropriate."

'Significant impact' if risks transpire

The report is based on a review that examined eight focus areas surrounding the vessel, including governance, risk management and readiness for service.

Overall, the report said it "appears probable" the AAD will be able to realise the Nuyina's anticipated benefits.

However, it flagged several issues that could have significant consequences.

"Remaining questions about the resolution of past propulsion system issues, as well as the incomplete commissioning work (especially in relation to science systems) brings the possibility the vessel is unavailable for key roles," it stated.

The report also suggested the private company contracted to operate the vessel, Serco, could face increased crewing costs, and that "AAD may find itself without an operator for the vessel".

It said the AAD was aware of the issues and had plans in place to respond.

"However, if one or several of these [issues] transpired, they would have a significant impact on the government's ability to achieve the benefits expected from the investment," it said.

The report also flagged "infrastructure gaps" in Hobart and at Antarctic stations that were impacting the efficiency and effectiveness of the use of the ship's capabilities.

One of the gaps relates to the wharf where the Nuyina berths at Hobart's Macquarie Point, which is in need of a significant upgrade.

Another issue is that the ship is unable to refuel in Hobart because, due to safety concerns, it has not been given permission to travel under the Tasman Bridge in order to reach a nearby fuel depot.

It means the Nuyina must travel more than 600 kilometres to Burnie in Tasmania's north-west to refuel , adding almost $1 million to the AAD's annual fuel bill.

The review also noted that the Nuyina was "not well designed to support and re-supply Macquarie Island", where the AAD has a research station.

Work underway to address issues: AAD

The AAD said the Nuyina was one of the most complex scientific icebreakers in the world, and that it would serve Australia's interests for the next three decades.

"Over the past 12 months, RSV Nuyina has supported resupply activities at Australia's research stations including, delivering personnel, cargo and equipment," an AAD spokesperson said.

"The Nuyina has also assisted critical Australian Antarctic Program science activities, including sea floor mapping, the Southern Ocean plankton survey, the deployment of whale and krill monitoring devices and support for the Denman Terrestrial Campaign."

The spokesman also said many of the issues raised in the report were being managed effectively.

"The gateway review found the overall delivery confidence for the project to design and build Nuyina was good," they said.

"It also noted that the AAD has completed work, or has work underway to address all issues."

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13 Titanic Mysteries That May Never Be Solved

Was it even the titanic.

E veryone agrees that a luxury liner set sail on April 10, 1912, and sank five days later, taking the lives of around 1,500 of the 2,223 aboard. But that’s pretty much where the consensus ends. Some insist the ship that sank wasn’t the Titanic, but rather, the nearly identical R.M.S. Olympic. As the story goes, the Olympic had been damaged in an accident the year before, but in order to score a bigger insurance payoff, the ships’ common owners passed off the Olympic as the Titanic and then deliberately sank it. While there are lots of holes in this Titanic theory , serial numbers found on parts of the ship that didn’t sink support it . Here’s why we remain fascinated by the Titanic after more than a century .

Did a fire actually seal the ship’s fate?

A recent documentary offers credible evidence that the Titanic (let’s just call it that, for argument’s sake) had been damaged by a coal fire, which had been raging for three weeks before the ship even set sail. The damage would have weakened the hull of the ship, thus hastening the ship’s sinking when it collided with an iceberg. ( If it collided with an iceberg, which is another Titanic mystery we discuss below.)

Why was the captain speeding?

For decades, people believed that Captain Smith was speeding through the iceberg-heavy waters of the North Atlantic because he wanted the Titanic to cross the Atlantic faster than her sister ship, the Olympic. But in 2004, the Geological Society of America published an academic paper by engineer Robert H. Essenhigh with a different theory: It claimed the real reason the Titanic’s captain was speeding was to burn coal as quickly as possible in order to control the coal fire mentioned above. Did a full moon have something to do with the Titanic’s crash? Here are 10 more fascinating facts you never knew about the Titanic .

What caused the ship to break into two pieces?

On September 1, 1985, oceanographer Robert Ballard discovered the wreckage 2.5 miles below the ocean surface, along with the surprising news that the ship had broken in two before sinking. Previously, everyone had thought that the ship sank intact after colliding with an iceberg while speeding recklessly through icy waters near the coast of Newfoundland. Ballard’s discovery led to a new theory: that the ship’s splitting into two pieces, which “may have been the difference between life and death,” was the result of design flaws and the skimping on quality materials by the owners and/or builders.

Did a torpedo sink the Titanic?

Most believe that the Titanic sank after hitting an iceberg on April 14 (regardless of other contributing factors). But not everyone. Some think that the Titanic was torpedoed by a German U-boat . This theory doesn’t seem all that far-fetched considering that three years later in 1915, a German U-boat did sink a passenger ship, the Lusitania . However, it’s possible that torpedo theorists are confusing the Titanic with the Lusitania. It’s also possible that they’re confusing the Titanic with the Olympic, which had sustained damage after colliding with a military vessel in 1911. Still, the presence of several other ships in the vicinity of the Titanic’s sinking leaves the question open.

Was there even an iceberg?

Assuming the Titanic didn’t collide with, and wasn’t torpedoed by, another ship, it’s safe to believe that it hit an iceberg, right? Not necessarily. Professional mariner Captain L.M. Collins maintains that if the Titanic ha d hit an iceberg, it would have gone down in mere minutes. Instead, Collins and his followers believe that the Titanic must have hit a hidden floe of “pack ice” (multi-year-old sheets of ice floating near the ocean surface) that had made its way into the Atlantic from the Arctic Ocean. Collins points out discrepancies in eyewitness accounts, which may actually be due to various natural optical illusions. If only the crew had binoculars, right?

Why didn’t the crew have binoculars?

Surely, if the crew had binoculars, they would have seen the danger in time to change course. But the Titanic’s entire supply of binoculars was locked away in a storage compartment. And a crew member who had been transferred off the ship just before it set sail had the key. The crew member later claimed he “forgot” to hand over the key. But did he forget? Or did he deliberately hold onto it? And if so, was it to further the insurance fraud mentioned above? Or was it something else entirely?

If there was a warning, why didn’t anyone take it seriously?

Even without binoculars, the Titanic might have had time to change course before its collision if someone had warned the crew. But here’s the thing: Someone did  warn the crew. An hour before the collision , a nearby ship, the S.S. Californian, had radioed to say that it had been stopped by “dense field ice.” However, the Titanic’s radio operator, Jack Phillips, never conveyed the warning to Captain Smith. Some say the message was deliberately conveyed as “non-urgent,” but we will never know for sure since Phillips went down with the ship.

Did the Californian have something to do with it?

This cruise liner was less than 20 kilometers away from where the Titanic sank. It sent a warning to the Titanic about the dangerously icy conditions, which may have been relayed as a non-urgent matter. Later, the Californian crew reportedly ignored the Titanic’s distress signals , although they claimed they were not aware of those signals because their radio operator had gone off duty . Did the Californian really not notice what was happening within plain view?

The “third” ship

The Californian may not have been the only ship that ignored the Titanic’s distress signals. A Norwegian ship, the Samson , may have been nearby as well. In fact, some believe that the Samson was closer to the Titanic than the Californian but ignored her distress signals in order to avoid prosecution for illegal seal-hunting. This is a popular theory among defenders of the Californian’s captain, but whether it’s true remains a mystery. Check out a few more of the strangest unsolved mysteries of all time.

Did J.P. Morgan plan the whole thing?

Some who believe the Titanic took the place of the damaged Olympic blame financier J.P. Morgan, who was one of the owners of the company that owned both ships. Morgan was one of the wealthiest people on the planet at the time, and he wielded considerable power. In addition, he was a last-minute no-show on the Titanic’s sole voyage. Why did Morgan—and his entire family—not end up on the ship? Did he know what was going to happen? Did he plan it? This is what life was really like aboard the Titanic before it sank .

Was it a murder plot?

Some believe the sinking had nothing to do with insurance money, but rather that J.P. Morgan engineered the sinking to kill off his rivals , Jacob Astor, Isidor Straus, and Benjamin Guggenheim, all of whom perished aboard. But how did Morgan plan to pull it off? Neither the insurance theory nor the murder theory takes that into account. What else would Morgan have needed to do in order to ensure his plan’s success? Here’s another theory…

Why weren’t there enough lifeboats?

“No matter what caused the Titanic to sink, such a massive loss of life could probably have been avoided if the ship had carried sufficient lifeboats for its passengers and crew,” notes History.com . So then why did the uber-luxury liner have only 20 lifeboats, the legal minimum? Why did the ship’s owners decide to ignore recommendations to carry 50 percent more lifeboats? If the sinking were “merely” an insurance scam, how can the devastating lack of lifeboats be explained? This seems to dovetail more with a murder plot. But it also could be nothing more than cost-cutting on the part of the ship’s owners. Next, find out about these  15 crime mysteries that will never be solved .

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Books/Library

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This page contains information about a DayZ item that is currently not spawning/craftable, and/or is not functional - but is not a removed or replaced item, in Stable branch. The information on this page does not apply to the current version of the game or the content is not available.

Welcome to the Library . On this page, you will find an alphabetical listing of all 145 books that can be found and read, cover-to-cover, in DayZ . This section and the articles within it are primarily focused on information about each book's real-life counterpart and the text found within; for more information about books as an item and what you can do with them, please visit the main Books page.

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