By Lita Smith-Mines

Though a five-day-sail around the coastline in an old schooner was not my usual jam, it had the elements I enjoyed: my husband, a getaway, and time to read. So I agreed, and after reading all the literature they provided and watching the ship’s video, we set out.

Along the way, we met up with a friend for a meal and discovered a lovely village with a yummy chocolatier. Then [cue the ominous music] we made it to the ship.

We knew it was “cozy” and “rustic,” per the literature. But we didn’t know those words actually meant “cramped,” “damp,” and “bordering on unsanitary.”

Since pictures are worth a boatload of words, let’s start with our cabin. Here is all of it:

Now we’ve joined up with the tour of the rest of the ship. Let me show you the bathroom that all the cabins on our side of the ship will share:

I’m a boater, so I’m OK with a head looking like a head. But glance again at that photo. Do you see a sink? No, you don’t!

“Use hand sanitizer” they say. You know, the alcohol-based stuff that “kills 99% of germs” but removes zip that might be clinging to hands?

Before moving on, I just want to say that my boat, about half the size of this one, HAS A SINK.

We leave our side of the ship and cross the deck of the ship, dropping in on the galley where they prepare the food and we, the passengers eat. Oh, yes, this is also where the one and only shower is located:

To recap, you make your way up, across the deck, and down into the galley where you take a shower in the very near vicinity of staff and passengers. If you’re unlucky enough to be the “third or fourth” person in a row to take a shower you are requested to “please either empty the shower basin or call a crew member to do it for you.” While you are wet and in view of staff and passengers, of course.

Want to get clean but avoid the whole shower scene? You can leave your cabin, come up on that same deck, ask a crew member for hot water, and then carry it down to your cabin where you can’t stand with the door closed, so you have to sit on the bed and wash yourself. Let me show you what you need to descend holding said basin of hot water:

Speaking of water, it begins to rain heavily. We find our cabin soaked and seek out the captain. She sends a guy to “see,” but it turns out he already knows. He grabs our stuff, moves it to a vacant and dry cabin (same size) and goes about stopping the leaks. He doesn’t grab towels made of paper or cloth, but he does grab something from the closet that’s made to soak up liquid:

Yes, that’s a diaper. And that is Cookie Monster.

On the outside, I look like I’ve just seen 10 ghosts. On the inside, my brain is beating back my stomach before it launches into a gastric hurricane.

I turn to my husband and say, “You’ve known me a long, long time. You know I can’t handle this for days and days.” He sighs and says, “I know.”

However, the part of me that eschews shirking what she’s started doesn’t want to disappoint him, as I know he’d love to help crew the rig. Since we’re spending the night in port, I muster up my hastily departed fortitude and declare, “I’ll give it a try tonight before deciding.”

We venture to the galley where someone bangs her head on a very low beam, hear other complaints about cabin leaking, and dodge drips emanating from multiple spots. A crew member says they all know the ship leaks. “It’s old. It was built in 1916 so that makes it 126 years old.” (No, it doesn’t.)

Finally, we return to our mini-cabin. My husband fetches a basin of water so we can brush our teeth (ick). He starts watching a movie on his phone; I ask him what he’s watching. “Red Sea” he says without a trace of irony.

My spouse falls asleep and I read my book. I pause to stress eat all that delicious chocolate I bought earlier in the day, even as my stomach continues leaping upwards.

Halfway through the book, I guessed the ending. Now it’s about 3:00 am, I’ve got chocolate-covered teeth, cramped legs from the teeny bed, and I need to go to the bathroom. But I don’t, because the people in the next berth giggle like first graders every time someone uses the head and pumps, pumps, pumps to flush.

Once my husband is awake, there’s a lot of shimmying, swaying, and getting out of each other’s way (impossible, really) so we could each get dressed. We told the captain we were leaving. “OK,” she said and shrugged. Google tells me we weren’t the first ones to vamoose from this leaking ship, and we may not be the last.