Canada maritime cruise with A Prairie Home Companion

by Susan Budig

           The ship's horns bellow as a measured voice over the PA urges us to don life vests and proceed directly to our assigned lifeboat stations on the ship. My cabin-mate and I help each other yank flotation devices out of the closet and over our heads. We step out into the hall, falling into line with over 1,100 other passengers on the m.s. Maasdam as we heed the captain's orders, participating in a mandatory life boat drill for the first, and we hope, the only time on this Prairie Home Companion cruise. 

           Walking to my designated spot on deck six, I am chuffed to see Billy Ware and Tommy Alesi of the band, BeauSoleil, standing with their appointed unit. They, too, wear bulky nylon jackets, designed to hold up unconscious heads while adrift in the ocean. Later, over drinks at the Dolphin Bar, someone excitedly tells me that not even Garrison Keillor and his wife and daughter were exempt from the exercise. 

           Of course, this makes sense. If the ship goes down, these performers would be just as susceptible to the cold, salty waters as the rest of us. But it wasn't until I'd buttered toast across the aisle from singer Prudence Johnson, raised eyebrows over caviar for breakfast while standing in the buffet line with Sharon Arms Doucet, author and spouse to BeauSoleil's founder, and sat up until 2:30 in the morning debating what constitutes a Quad-City with guitarist Pat Donohue of The Guy's All-Star Shoe Band, that I really begin to appreciate how these voices heard over my radio and burned onto my CDs belong to living, breathing people with real lives just like me.  

The August evening prior to leaving for Boston, our ship's port of departure, I receive an e-mail from my sister-in-law, Kathy.   "Remember you are not the mold; you are the cheese!!" she writes.  This cryptic note of encouragement reminds me that although I'd be traveling with dozens of celebrities, namely Garrison Keillor and his cast from A Prairie Home Companion, as well as other world-famous musicians, I'm not as inconsequential as mold on the crust of all these Big Cheeses who will be my traveling mates.

My positive attitude is confirmed immediately after I board the ship.  I walk out onto the open deck, overlooking Boston Harbor where rush-hour cars zoom home along the waterfront bridge.  Ringing up my husband back in Minnesota to report my safe arrival, I find myself staring at the back of a vaguely familiar, shiny head, edged in wavy, salt-n-pepper locks.  Who should turn around, cell phone in hand, but Rich Dworsky, piano player extraordinaire and leader of the Shoe Band. 

Rich smiles at me with inquisitive brown eyes.  I've never been able to discern the color of his eyes before, even sitting in the fifth row in the audience of A Prairie Home Companion show at the Fitzgerald Theater in St. Paul.  We exchange pleasantries and go our own ways.  I stroll through the floating casino complete with blackjack tables and slot machines. 

"This must be my lucky day," I think to myself as I spy another baldhead, this one at the bar, waiting for a bucket of ice.  Michael Doucet and I shake hands; I congratulate him on being honored by the National Endowment for the Arts with its 2005 National Heritage Fellowship awarded to master folk and traditional artists.  This tribute effectively recognizes him as a national living treasure.  As I return to my room, I marvel on my good fortune at seeing two musical geniuses, one right after the other.

It isn't until my next star-sighting that I fully grasp the unique and delicious nature of this themed cruise.  Up on the Lido deck--the eleventh deck--Garrison Keillor mingles with all the guests attending the ship's sail-away.  As we pull out of Boston Harbor, Garrison shakes hands with a Nebraska couple, learning about the latest escapades of the couple's youngest grandson.  He warmly passes the time of day with a single, first-time cruiser from New York who has a handful of photos to show off, then he moves on to a retired couple from Wisconsin who snap pictures of each other as they talk with him. 

Suddenly it's my turn.  I happily relate meeting Garrison twenty years ago at my college graduation from St. Catherine's in St. Paul.  I dredge up an old joke from his commencement speech. He listens to every word.  I don't get the feeling he's in a rush to be off.  Quite the opposite, it seems Garrison Keillor has all the time in the world, just for me.

The APHC cruise, brainchild of Garrison Keillor, sells out in 48 hours at the end of December, 2004 exclusively to Prairie Home Companion fans.  "We chartered the whole boat!  There won't be anyone there but the APHC 'family'," Thomas Scheuzger, APHC assistant technical director, tells readers of a Prairie Home Companion on-line forum. 

Booked to sail on August 20th of the following year, are nearly 1200 passengers.  Five percent of that guest-list is performers to entertain the passengers and the APHC crew to run the show.  Replacing cruise entertainment and its infrastructure with their own personnel, however, costs money.  

            Albert Webster, cruise tour manager and APHC stage manager, explains on-line, "We priced the cruise based on early saver rates published by Holland America (the cruise line) for this cruise.  We added an average of $500 to those rates, which we felt was at least a fair price for the extra programming we will provide." 

Richard Holleran, fellow passenger and author of "What Time Is the Midnight Buffet?"?a book about his cruise experiences--justifies the steep price, "There are definitely less expensive ways to get your feet wet, but none will be as much fun as this cruise."

                        Mornings on the ship

Several months ago, while using the Schwinn Air-Dyne at the Northwest Athletic Club in St. Louis Park, I could've sworn I saw former Minnesota Senator Rudy Boschwitz cycling seven machines to my left.  It was hard to be sure without gawking, so I didn't and never knew for certain whether it was Rudy or not. 

Up on deck eleven, adjacent to the Ocean Spa and Salon, the gym affords an intimate awareness of who is who, no gawking required.  I spend 25 aerobic minutes first thing every morning, pedaling one of two recumbent bikes.  Often, on my right, Scott Rivard, technical director for APHC, rides at the same time.  David Doucet, BeauSoleil's guitarist, clocks in his daily hour to my left.  The three of us gaze at the chilly Atlantic and sweat.

There's something empowering about joining a well-known person in a mundane activity.  My thoughts travel along the lines, "Hey, this very cool person is doing the same thing as I am.   Inferentially, I must be a very cool person, too."  Juvenile, yes, but there it is.  And I don't even need to gawk.

            Of the seven days at sea, four are devoted to port excursions, two are spent sailing to our next destination, and the last one busy with debarkation, but they all include breakfast.  The constant availability of food could trip up many a cruiser.  Choosing among the formal dining room with tableside service, complementary room service, a hot-food cafeteria-style buffet or a cold, self-service buffet leaves no room for want. 

Forewarned about cruise-induced weight gain, I stick with oatmeal and scrambled eggs with a few slices of fresh fruit.  Sometimes I splurge and fill a cup with muesli.  For the first several days of the cruise, sheer excitement over being on APHC cruise swallows up my appetite.  I run on pure adrenaline 

            Afternoon Events

            When I boarded the ship, my agenda was sparse.  One item, however, stood out with significance to me.  I wanted to share a personal story with Garrison.  My friend had recently lost her father to cancer.  At Bruce Larson's graveside service, two weeks before the cruise began, I noted that the bench that marked his burial place was engraved with the words, "Hello Love" reflecting Bruce's approach to life.  He and his wife, Mary, also have a wooden plaque with the same words attached to their home near Claremont, Minnesota.  In the early days of APHC, Garrison opened his show singing the song, "Hello Love."

I find Garrison one afternoon near the elevators on the Promenade deck. While dozens of people walk past, Garrison listens as I tell him about Bruce's love for A Prairie Home Companion and how he always milked his Guernsey cows to the sounds of MPR.  I pull out photos of the bench at the cemetery and hand him a clipping of Bruce's obituary, which tells of his life story in brief detail, written by his daughter and my friend, Karen.   

Garrison listens closely and, to my surprise, rather than a perfunctory glance at the memorial service bulletin, he carefully studies every word. It takes several minutes to read and, for a moment, I feel as if I should be saying something, anything to fill the silence between us.  Then I relax and realize--it's not awkward silence at all, but simply shared stillness between friends.

When Garrison finishes reading, he looks up at me, saying, "She did right by him; he would be proud of this."  Later that week, when he opens his two hour APHC show on board the ship, we hear him sing, for the first time in what seems like many years, "Well, look who's coming through that door, I think we've met somewhere before, hello love?"

Despite the relaxed and indulgent tenor of the cruise, many travelers still want to attend worship services.  Garrison finds a consenting Lutheran pastor to officiate.  So Sunday afternoon, I arrive with only minutes to spare, grab a worship booklet and slip into one of the front rows.  As we sing the opening hymn, a strangely familiar voice intones nearby.  I glance up, half expecting to see my brother-in-law who sings with a beautiful baritone voice.  It is Garrison who stands next to me, his deep bass harmonizing with the rest of us. 

When my family gathers for Easter at my in-laws home in Marshall, I always do my best to jockey next to Jim during church services, just to listen to his powerful voice.  Now I imagine the same thing happening among Garrison's extended family back home.  There's a relative or two, just like me, who angles to be next to him during hymn sings, indulging themselves in the pleasure of a resounding voice.

                      Dusk

Rich MacDonald and Natalie Springuel, naturalists on board, offer us commentary about our surroundings and keep an eye out for sea creature cameos.  Every sunset, they provide an hour-long annotation, remarking on maritime sightings of the day and what's currently before our eyes.  Pulling into and out of port presents opportunity to see many birds including Leache's Storm-Petrels, Northern Gannet, Greater Shearwaters, Herring Gull and once, an elusive Pomarine Jaeger.

Truthfully, birds don't excite me all that much.  I enjoy watching them, but I live with a pair of cockatiels, so the novelty of birds, even in their natural habitat, does not hold for me.  However, I definitely want to see a whale.  There is something exhilarating about seeing an animal bigger than a Holstein, living free and untamed.  Whales are massive animals; their bodies sleek and glistening.  Whales are made for the water like a bird is made for air. 

            I don't see any whales the first several days on the cruise.  Rain, clouds, advection fog, bad luck, and darkness all get in the way.  I keep my hopes up, though.  One evening, as the sun sets, melting flecks of Aztec gold on the curving waves, I stand with newly-made friends, patiently watching, pointing our eyes out over the water, each with his or her own thoughts.

            Then Paula spies a misty spout rising mushroom-like in the air.  The wet, rubbery skin of a muddy black whale arches through the water.  I taste salt on my lips.  I catch my breath, waiting for the next semi-circle of wet-suit-whale to appear.  When it pokes up yards and yards to the aft, I gasp for breath as well.  It really isn't that big, maybe not even a whale at all, but a horsehead, also known as a gray seal.  I am still thrilled to see it.

            Evening Equals Entertainment

            Each evening we are treated to the wide-ranging talents of the cast from A Prairie Home Companion.  Fred Newman informs and entertains us with mouth-sound lectures and demonstrations.  Sue Scott and Tim Russell perform a satirical comedy, Hate Mail, on several evenings in the Rembrandt Lounge while Arnie Kinsella accompanies the skit on piano.   And we have the luxury of keeping up with Guy Noir and life in Lake Wobegon on more than a couple occasions. 

            Those of us in the mood for music choose from Butch Thompson in the Piano Bar, Prudence Johnson and Dan Chouinard performing Gershwin in the Explorers Lounge, and in the Ocean Bar, Robin and Linda Williams belting out folk tunes. 

The myriad choices almost overwhelm me.  Maria Györei Bales, from Minneapolis and Budapest, comments, "We hear them on the radio, we see them on stage?all as one band?but now we see them as individuals, as soloists." 

Finally, for the fleet-footed, there is dancing.  Ingvar Sodal, who hails from Norway and his wife, Sally, professional folk dancers, teach Scandinavian dancing. And some talented passengers, Jane Gorbaty of Silver Spring, Maryland and Al and Joanne Conero from Rhinebeck, New York, lead other cruisers in Cajun dance steps prior to BeauSoleil's nightly gig. 

            Monday night up in the Crow's Nest, the Cajun band plays 15 minutes longer than scheduled, waiting for Garrison and the Shoe Band to arrive after talent show auditions in the Ocean Bar.  Garrison's objective, once he appears, is to stump Michael Doucet.  To an overflowing room, Garrison contends that there must be a song that BeauSoleil cannot Cajunize.  Michael shakes his head and laughs, accepting the challenge.

            Forty-five minutes of part sing-a-long, part virtuosic performance, Garrison concedes to the Cajun band which has transposed every single song, including a Lutheran hymn and a Mother Goose nursery rhyme, into a piece featuring the fiddle, accordion and Billy Ware's essential triangle.  With much gaiety, the crowd hits the Lido deck for a late-night snack.  I remain behind in conversation with Pat Donohue. 

            Pat with his crinkly, mischievous eyes that seem to read my mind, tells me that this is his first cruise and he's enjoying it so much that while the ship sat in Frenchman's Bay, next to Bar Harbor, Maine, our first port of call, he stayed on the ship.  Their performance schedule keeps him pretty busy, anyway.  He confesses he doesn't always know what's going on, but he shows up where he's supposed to, guitar in hand.

In addition to his solo career as a musician in many venues around the States, for the past 15 years, Pat also composes original numbers for the APHC show.  He tells me about a time when he and Andy Stein each played a phrase, ping-ponging back and forth, until 45 minutes later, they had a new song. 

            Suddenly we hear loud laughter from across the room.  Pat exclaims, "Oh man, I think Andy's trying to kiss Michael!"  I look up to see Michael bending backward, like a limbo dancer and Andy smirking scampishly, his bushy eyebrows wagging in front of Michael's face.  Wisely, Pat and I decline to investigate this bizarre scene.

                    Late Nights on the Ship

When it comes to Cajun music, I walk a very fine line between enthusiastic affection and fanatical obsession.  Too spent after dancing frenetically to every song played by BeauSoleil each night, I down quarts of water, ignoring the midnight buffet.  Except for Thursday night.  It's BeauSoleil's night off and I enjoy a host of performances by various groupings of the Shoe Band, plus other musical guests.  Thursday night is also the Dessert Extravaganza. 

Starting at 10:30 p.m., dozens of chefs from Maasdam's kitchen spread out their masterpieces for a late-night dessert buffet.  Amid icy sculptures of dripping dolphins, watermelons carved into cruise ships, vats of mousse to be ladled into bowls, towering platters of sticky rolls dripping with buttery cinnamon, flambé, tiramisu, key lime pie, and apple galette, stands Andy Stein. 

Andy lives in New York City now, but for 12 years was a regular member in the Guy's Shoe band.  He still commutes to St. Paul on occasion to join the Saturday show.  Thursday night, his plate is empty, but he's licking his fingers, so I can't quite tell if he's already indulged or is flummoxed by the choices.  "You coming or going?" I ask. 

Andy grins, his eyes light up with a roguish light, "What a great pick-up line, I'm gonna have to use that myself."   He mimics me, with added macho growl, "Hey there honey, you coming or going?" 

Blushing, I introduce myself and we sit down at a small table.  "This isn't like any other cruise," he announces, "On a regular cruise, you might not even like 50 percent of the people?APHC listeners are a more intelligent class of people.  Well, you know they are, just look at the demographics," Andy says, full of New York attitude and a hint of New York accent. 

I have heard his sentiments echoed by other passengers.  Veteran cruiser, Catherine Gimson from Flagstaff, Arizona notes, "Part of the pleasure of this cruise is that this is a theme-cruise.  Whereas with regular cruises, you might start up a conversation and ten words into it, start thinking, 'why did I even open my mouth?' it's not like that on APHC cruise."

Tonight Andy is full of the nick.  Wanting to find out exactly what that tomfoolery was all about between him and Michael Monday night and maybe squeeze out a bit of juicy gossip as we eat our late-night desserts, I query Andy about his shenanigans. 

            "So, what was going on with you and Michael the other night?"

            Andy either really can't recall the incident or he'd rather forget and plays it straight.  "I don't know, what about that night?" he says.

            "Ahh, you remember Monday night, don't you?"  I ask.

            Andy gives me a blank smile.

            "Come on, Andy, don't you remember what happened?" 

            Andy cocks his eyebrows, but says nothing.

            "In the Crow's Nest?"  I prompt.

            Suddenly Andy exclaims,  "Oh, yeah!  That night!  It was good for me baby, was it good for you?" roaring wickedly.  Blushing once again, I am snookered by Andy's wit.

The skies above the ocean make a perfect canvas for the artistry of nature.  With little light pollution to bleed into the austerity of stars, they lay on a never-ending black backdrop, showing off a rainbow of colors.  Jon Harmon, director of the Arlington Schools Planetarium, knows the map of stars like he knows the Virginia road map in his car's glove box.  According to Jon, a ship at sea is one of the last few places on earth where one can get a crowd of people and lots of clean sky together at the same time for stargazing. 

            When Jon refers to lots of sky, he's not talking about a seascape rimmed with trees and dirtied by the lights of distant towns.  Out on the ocean, with only one or two other cruise ships dotting the horizon, there's literally nothing but water and sky.  The first night I venture up to the top deck for a look I am nearly blown over.  Not by the majesty of creation, but by the power of nature.  We are shrouded in mist with the wind whipping us around such that I can barely hear John's star lecture.  But the promise of a stunning view, so much greater than I can ever see from the backyard of my Minneapolis suburban home, lures me back the next night.

            As we stand staring out at the summer triangle of stars--Deneb, Altair and Vega?the colors dazzle me, as if I were holding a prism in front of my eyes.  Jon, with a red laser light in hand, draws a parallel between the rarity of clear night sky, unhindered by city lights, and the rarity of good, old-fashioned variety shows like A Prairie Home Companion. 

"The days of clear, black sky, like the golden days of variety radio, are few," says Jon.  "I'd enjoyed so many years of listening to APHC, that after I'd signed up for the cruise, I wanted to give something back, so I offered my services as an astronomer."

            Stargazing turns out to be one of my favorite activities.  I feel as though I cannot possibly look long enough or deep enough to absorb all there is to see.  I ask questions non-stop.  Jon's wealth of information lulls me into a reverie of sailing amongst Aquarius and Delphinus, of touching the many colors of Antares, and sitting in the yellow-orange glow of Arcturus, my favorite star.

            Debarkation

           Saturday morning we pull into Boston Harbor before the sun rises.  Breakfast is served formally in the Rotterdam dining room and buffet-style on the Lido deck.  I wait for my number to be called for debarking.  As I sit in the lobby of deck six, it hardly seems possible that only one week has passed.  It was right here that Rich Dworsky explained his technique for keeping one step ahead of Garrison during APHC shows.  "I've got a Vulcan mind-meld going on with Garrison," he says, revealing his Trekkie leanings.

            And one floor up, during a writers' workshop in the Wajang Theater, Garrison suggested, over my protests, that I pursue a wider scope of freelance writing, rather than focusing on music journalism or poetry.  "There are ten-thousand publications struggling to get material, struggling for people's attention.  Poetry is at a great disadvantage in this struggle?the poetry will always be there for you?but freelancing will put shoes on the children's feet."

            And just hours ago, during our last midnight conversation, Rich told Jason Aulie, a pharmaceutical student from Duluth, one of the talent show finalists with a Bob Dylan parody, "you made Garrison laugh, which is not easy to do."

            "All passengers with numbers 4, 9, and 27 please come forward to the gangway," I hear over the PA.   Looks like my number's up.

            Home Again

            Now I'm back into my routine of sending kids off to school, washing up the breakfast dishes, and checking e-mail.  It already seems a long-ago memory, but it's so easy to recall the faces and events.  When I play David Doucet's rendition of Je m'endor from his Quand J'ai Parti album, it's not just the notes I hear picked on his guitar, but a remembered image pops up of David's smile traveling all the way to his spectacled eyes as he lends me his binoculars while we all whale-watched.  Or upon hearing another new tune of Pat's as he leads the Shoe Band on a Saturday night, I recollect his face as he danced around the Crow's Nest with Jodie, a passenger from Seattle. 

Instead of dancing to live Cajun music every night, I'm back to riding the stationary bike at the gym.  Just last week, though, after finishing my workout, I leave the gym, lost in thought, staring at nothing in particular.  Then I see a pair of knees coming up the walk.  Those aren't just any knees; I think to myself.  Those knees look exactly like Sue Scott's!

            When I look up at the person's face, I thrill to see that I am right.  "Hey, you're Sue Scott!" I smartly say.  "I was on the cruise!" 

            "Yeah, I know," Sue says, "I recognize you."