The Cruise That Should’ve Come With a Warning Label

Michael and I were reminiscing today about all the cruises we’ve taken over the years—sunsets, buffets, questionable entertainment—but one voyage rises above the rest like a neon-lit cautionary tale. A cruise so unforgettable, so absurd, so wildly off‑the‑rails that even now we shake our heads, laugh until we tear up, and thank God we survived it with our sanity intact. It starred our friends from St. Louis, Beverly and Janie. And because this saga is far too long for one blog post, I’m giving you the beginning, the end, and one tiny, ridiculous slice of the chaos in the middle. Buckle up.

We had never traveled with Beverly and Janie before, but they were eager to join us on a seven‑night cruise out of San Juan. Planning was a blast. We imagined strolling cobblestone streets, sipping rum cocktails, sampling Puerto Rican cuisine—grown‑up, cultured, vacation things.

Then Janie happened.

After wandering Old San Juan, we started scouting dinner options. Every menu looked better than the last—fresh seafood, mofongo, flavors you simply cannot find in the Midwest. I was practically ready to lick a menu board. And then, from half a block ahead, we heard Janie shriek:

“HEY! HURRY! YOU WON’T BELIEVE THIS! THEY HAVE A FUDDRUCKERS!”

Michael and I froze. A Fuddruckers. In San Juan. Two miles from the Fuddruckers they already go to in St. Louis. And they were thrilled. Like they’d discovered Atlantis.

We smiled the smile of two men who knew resistance was futile.

Inside, Janie lit up like she’d won the lottery. The menu was in Spanish and English—international glamour! She ordered (the two would share a meal) with the confidence of a woman who had never once considered that she was in a foreign country:

• One refillable soda with two straws (I began mentally digging my own grave)

• “Don’t be stingy” french fries (thank God the cashier didn’t understand)

• One hot dog cut in half—complete with hand motions, slow English, and the volume of a megaphone

When the food arrived, Janie slammed her third refill on the table and bellowed, “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE? I SAID CUT IT CROSSWISE, NOT LENGTHWISE!”

Michael and I sat there quietly, chewing, wondering why she couldn’t just… cut it herself. The server returned with the hot dog now cut both crosswise and lengthwise, like a geometry project gone wrong. Janie waved her away. I prayed the fries were still warm.

The cruise itself? Seven nights of sitcom‑level madness. I’ll spare you most of it, but I must share the moment karma stepped in wearing steel‑toed boots.

We were walking on the beach, Janie behind us, complaining nonstop that we were walking too fast. Suddenly the complaining stopped. I turned around just in time to see her walk face‑first into a low tree limb and fall flat on her back like a cartoon character. I nearly passed out from laughter. She unleashed a string of F‑bombs that made seagulls scatter. Beverly wanted to evaporate. The bus ride back was silent—blessedly, beautifully silent.

Fast‑forward to the end of the cruise.

We disembarked, and Beverly and Janie gushed about what a “wonderful time” they’d had. Michael and I nodded politely while mentally debating who would apply the choke hold first. Beverly deserved a medal.

At the airport, the lines were long, so I suggested self‑check‑in. Janie acted like I’d asked her to defuse a bomb, but Beverly coaxed her into “being a team player.” (Sure, Janie. Sure.)

Michael and I checked in. Beverly checked in. Janie scanned her boarding pass and the screen flashed: SEE GATE ATTENDANT.

What followed was a tantrum so dramatic it deserved its own Broadway lighting. She kicked her suitcase. She cursed. She yelled. I’m shocked TSA didn’t escort her to a quiet room.

At the gate, she harassed the counter agent for thirty straight minutes. Michael and I relocated ourselves to a different zip code. Then suddenly—miracle of miracles—Janie approached us smiling. Smiling! She waved a boarding pass in our faces.

“FIRST CLASS, MY FRIENDS. THE SQUEAKY WHEEL…”

I nearly swallowed my tongue, but we congratulated her like civilized adults.

And then—oh, the plot twist.

Ten minutes later, the gate agent announced, due to the overbooked flight, they needed six volunteers to take the next morning’s flight. Hotel, food voucher, $400 travel credit, guaranteed first‑morning departure.

Before I could blink, Janie sprinted to the counter. The same woman who had just thrown a Category 5 tantrum about possibly being bumped now gleefully volunteered to stay another night.

Beverly was stunned. Michael and I were mentally and emotionally exhausted.

As Janie said on her way out, “It was too good a deal to pass up.”

To this day, Michael and I laugh whenever we think about that trip. Beverly and Janie always said they had a “wonderful time” with us.

And honestly… if that was their idea of wonderful, I do not want to know what a bad time looks like. Yikes.

And as I look back through the lens of Empathy on the Rocks, I can say with absolute certainty: it was probably a blessing I didn’t have one of my rocks with me on that trip. Not because I would’ve thrown it—no, no, I’m far too evolved for that—but because I might’ve been tempted to hand it to Janie with a gentle smile and say, “Here. Hold this. It’s the only thing on this island sturdier than my patience.”