Sailing Solo and Scared
Dear Sailing Solo and Scared,
First off, you’re not pathetic—you’re BRAVE! Taking that first solo cruise takes serious courage, and your husband would be so proud of you for honoring your shared dream.
Here’s the truth: cruise ships are magical for solo travelers. Join the solo travelers’ group immediately. They’re like an instant support network with better stories than TV. Sit at the communal tables in the dining room. You’ll be amazed at the fascinating people you’llmeet. And Valentine’s events? Go! Dance with other solo cruisers, flirt shamelessly with the handsome waiters (they love it), and remember that confidence is the most attractive accessory at any age.
As for meeting someone new—stranger things have happened at sea! But even if romance isn’t in your future, friendship definitely is. Some of my dearest companions are octogenarian cruise addicts who could teach masterclasses in living your best life.
XOXO Trixie
P.S. Pack one knockout outfit that makes YOU feel amazing. Trust me on this!
Day 3: Portland, England (Jurassic Coast & Stonehenge)
After dinner last night,Ransom and I went back to our cabin, where he tried his best to convince me that speaking to potential killers could have consequences I didn’t bargain for.
His argument started out strictly professional and security-minded, but when he loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves while pacing our stateroom like a caged panther, his lecture took on a decidedly more persuasive and far more lusty quality.
The man could negotiate international peace treaties just by unbuttoning his shirt and running his hands through that dark hair while explaining the dangers of amateur detective work. Let’s just say his concerns about my safety became significantly more compelling when he demonstrated exactly how much he had to lose if something happened to me.
By the time he finished making his point—several times, with impressive thoroughness—I was too breathless to argue about investigation protocols. Though I should mention that his persuasive techniques didn’t actually change my mind about solving this case, just my blood pressure and my ability to form coherent sentences for a solid twenty minutes afterward.
But it’s morning, and he’s already long gone, dealing with port authorities, Scotland Yard, and bodies that need shuffling around to different countries.
The scent of sea salt mingles with eucalyptus and lavender essential oils as I step onto my veranda, breathing in the crisp morning air of Portland, England.
The harbor stretches before me like a postcard someone forgot to mail. Historic stone buildings huddle against the waterfront while seagulls screech their breakfast demands over the gentle lapping of waves against the ship’s hull. Fishing boats bob in the distance like toys in a bathtub, and the whole scene screamsquaint English port townso loudly I’m surprised there isn’t a gift shop selling miniature versions of the view withMy Parents Went to Portland and All I Got Was This Lousy Snow Globewritten on them. And if there is one, it would be mine.
Valentine’s Day decorations still drape the ship’s railings like romantic crime scene tape, heart-shaped balloons defying the morning breeze with the determination of Cupid on steroids. Even the life preservers have been bedazzled with pink and red ribbons, because apparently, safety equipment isn’t immune to holiday spirit.
On excursion days, I prepare myself with the dedication of an Olympic athlete, hydrating and carb-loading for the strenuous activity of walking around, looking at old stones. Some of these excursions can be a real killer?—
I gasp at my own choice of words. Speaking of killers, maybe I should stick to safer metaphors until we solve this little murder problem of mine.
I don’t waste any time after I get dressed and head straight to the spa where the crowd is sparse on days we’re in port, and the smoothies are in ample abundance.
Sometimes a smoothie is just what’s needed when I know I’ll be powerwalking my way around a new country, and before I’ll be powerwalking to the buffet for my first official breakfast, then to the formal dining room for second breakfast. Have I mentioned I enjoyed coffee and a cheese Danish via room service the second I opened my eyes? That hardly qualifies as breakfast. Atthis point, it’s just a daily starter that’s necessary to get the day going, sort of like stretching and showering.
The spa café hits me with the kind of Zen atmosphere that costs extra and smells like expensive relaxation. Not everyone is allowed to dine at the spa café. It’s one of those perks allotted to those whose cabins are on the admiral floor or higher. Of course, as an employee, I have most perks on the ship available to me—like sleeping with the head of security.
Soft instrumental music floats through speakers hidden among potted bamboo, while the gentle trickle of a water fountain competes with the whispered conversations of guests who’ve clearly paid premium prices to look this serene before noon.
The scent of wheatgrass and organic everything mingles with fresh fruit and the kind of herbal tea that promises to cleanse your chakras along with your digestive system and possibly your bank account. Okay, let’s pause right here. The spa café might be a premium offering, but let’s be real. Even if it was open to every guest on this ship, the place would still be sparse. When most people fantasize about all the food they’re going to gobble up on a cruise, grass clippings and hay aren’t too high on the list.
It takes far too much brain energy for me to contemplate the smoothie menu—because apparently, even beverages require advanced degrees to understand these days—when I spot a familiar vivacious brunette seated by the window. Her wild curly hair catches the morning light streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows, and she’s methodically slicing a banana into a bowl of oatmeal as if she were punishing it.
Dr. Jazmine Stone looks like she’s been hit by a truck carrying insomnia and emotional baggage. Her bohemian flowing clothes hang differently today, less earth goddess and more wrung-out dishrag, while her chunky jewelry seems to weigh her down instead of accessorizing her free spirit.
I waste no time zooming her way with the subtlety of a tsunami in yoga pants. “May I take this seat?”
Jazz frowns as she glances around the nearly empty spa café, clearly wondering why I’d pick the one occupied table in a sea ofempty ones. She shrugs with the enthusiasm of a woman who’s run out of caring about social niceties. “Sure, knock yourself out.”
“I’m Trixie Troublefield Baxter,” I say, settling into a luxurious bamboo chair that feels like a cloud made of money. “I teach art classes on the ship. We met soon after you boarded, but a lot has happened since then. I just wanted to say how sorry I am for your loss.”
“Oh, that’s right.” Jazz brightens momentarily like someone just plugged her back into the emotional power grid. “I remember you from the greeting committee and, well, from the fiasco last night.” She winces like she’s swallowed something bitter. “Am I right in saying that it was you that Lavender tapped on the shoulder before she took her dive into dessert heaven?”
“Yes, that was me,” I admit, because being the last person a murder victim spoke to isn’t exactly something you can lie about when there were more than fifty witnesses.
