64 Days at Sea

A Musician's Log 1998/1999

Each week, I’ll post an entry from the log. A gig I took on a cruise ship in 1998. Music, travel, insanity, and photography.
December 19, 1998.

The Caribbean stretched endlessly before me as the MS Sundream cut its path toward Montego Bay, Jamaica. The day’s news slipped aboard like a stowaway. The weight of history tucked neatly into the folds of the morning’s schedule—Bill Clinton, impeached by the House of Representatives for perjury and obstruction of justice.

The ship’s daily bulletin was an odd relic of sorts, its brevity reminiscent of those “free reads” handed out on Toronto’s TTC in the mid-2000s—quick bites of news for riders between stops. The impeachment shared page space with the trivia contest by the pool, and yet another screening of Titanic, the year-old blockbuster now a staple of cruise-ship escapism.

Here, the grand theatre of American politics found little stage. The sun worshippers lounged beneath broad-brimmed hats, their conversations drowned out by the steady rhythm of waves and the clink of ice against glass. Pleasure triumphed over politics. The sea, the sun, and the bar—all conspired to eclipse the gravity of Clinton’s fate, reducing it to a headline skimmed and forgotten beneath a Caribbean sky.

In the mid-19th century, as steam engines revolutionized transportation, a new kind of adventure began to take shape on the open seas. What had once been gruelling voyages across the Atlantic, focused on mail and cargo, evolved into something altogether different: leisurely travel designed for comfort and exploration.

The idea was simple, yet groundbreaking. Wealthy Europeans, eager for escape and new experiences, sought out the Peninsular and Oriental Steam Navigation Company, or P&O, to whisk them to Mediterranean ports in style. These early cruises, starting in the 1840s, were not about the destination alone—they were about the journey. Onboard, passengers were treated to elegant dining and cozy accommodations, a sharp contrast to the utilitarian ships of the past.

As the decades rolled on, the idea of pleasure cruises caught fire. In the late 19th century, as industrialization swelled the ranks of the middle class, more people could afford to indulge in these maritime adventures. Steamship lines like Cunard and White Star began offering not just transport, but an escape—a way to see the world from the comfort of a luxuriously appointed vessel. Trips to the Caribbean, the Mediterranean, and even the fjords of Norway became all the rage among those seeking both relaxation and a taste of the exotic.

Then came the turning point: the launch of the Princess in Victoria Luise by the Hamburg America Line in 1900. This was no ordinary ship. It was purpose built for cruising, with lavish dining rooms, spacious lounges, and private cabins that redefined what it meant to travel by sea. No longer just a way to get from one place to another, cruise ships became destinations.

By the mid-20th century, as aeroplanes began to dominate long-distance travel, ocean liners faced an existential question: adapt or fade away. Many companies chose to innovate, turning their ships into floating resorts. Norwegian Caribbean Line and Carnival Cruise Line led the charge in the 1960s and 1970s, making cruises affordable for families and casual travellers. The Caribbean became the hub of this new era, offering sun-soaked itineraries and onboard entertainment that rivalled anything found on land.

The cruise industry had officially transformed. What started as a luxury reserved for the elite was becoming a global phenomenon, accessible to anyone seeking adventure, relaxation, or simply the joy of watching the horizon stretch endlessly over the waves. Today, cruise ships are marvels of engineering and hospitality, carrying on a tradition that began with the dream of turning the sea into a place of wonder and comfort.

The jet landed on Montego Bay’s heat-baked tarmac, where ripples of refracted air distorted the view beyond immigration’s glass panes. Stepping off the plane, I felt the Caribbean’s warm embrace, starkly contrasting Toronto’s November chill, which nearly swallowed up my doubts. I was here to chase the sun, capture a few indelible frames, play music, and, if lucky, outrun an Ontario winter. But as much as I tried to welcome this tropical greeting, my mind drifted back to family, our tangled goodbyes just hours before, and our shared nervous laughter and whispered promises. Separation felt like a storm gathering in the background, but I was committed to the adventure ahead.

The Sundream waited in the harbour, a weathered beauty from another time. Her silhouette softened by age but not diminished. She stood apart from the gleaming modern liners around her—those floating cities of steel and neon that boasted their grandeur at every turn. The Sundream, by contrast, carried herself with the quiet dignity of a beloved vinyl record: a little scratched, a little worn, but still able to spin magic. Her wooden floors, smoothed by decades of sun-seekers, told a story all their own, one of laughter, salt-kissed breezes, and evenings spent under starlit skies. She wasn’t perfect, but she had soul.

Her story began in the crisp spring of 1970, in the shipyards of Wärtsilä, Helsinki. Christened the MS Song of Norway, she was a ship of firsts—the inaugural cruise liner purpose-built for Royal Caribbean Cruise Lines. In her day, she was a marvel, sleek and radiant, her decks gleaming like freshly polished brass. She held 724 passengers, a modest number by today’s standards, but she offered something the seas hadn’t yet known: luxury on a scale that felt intimate. Her maiden voyage set the tone for a new era of leisure at sea, one where elegance mingled with adventure.

By 1978, her reputation outgrew her hull. She underwent a dramatic transformation, emerging from the shipyards with an extended frame—85 feet longer, her capacity now topping 1,000 souls. She returned to the seas not just as a ship, but as a statement, a queen of her kind, her sails swelling with the confidence of reinvention. For decades, she served under Royal Caribbean’s banner, her decks alive with music, her bars shimmering with cocktails under the glow of Caribbean sunsets.

But time, relentless as the tides, ushered in change. By 1996, she had passed into new hands and was rechristened the MS Sundream under Sun Cruises. Gone was her iconic Sky Lounge, a casualty of modern trends, but her charm endured. She carried on, steadfastly ferrying travellers to sun-soaked destinations. She adapted, as all things must, her heart still beating with the echoes of earlier days.

The Sundream lived many lives. As the millennium turned, she became the MS Dream Princess, then the MS Clipper Pacific, and still later, the MS Festival. Each name marked a new chapter, a fresh purpose, but she remained anchored to her past as a vessel of adventure and possibility. For a time, she even sailed with the Peace Boat organization, her once-opulent decks repurposed to carry hope and messages of unity across the oceans.

By 2012, her voyages slowed, her movements now confined to Chinese waters, where she served as a floating casino—a far cry from her early days of grandeur. In 2014, her final journey ended not with applause, but with silence. She was dismantled for scrap, her storied hull reduced to fragments. Yet, as the Sundream disappeared piece by piece, her legacy endured, like the trails of foam left behind by a ship carving through water.

To those who sailed her, the Sundream was more than a vessel. She was a companion, a silent witness to countless memories, and a symbol of the changing tides of history. Ships like her don’t truly disappear; they linger in the hearts of those who walked their decks, their stories rippling onward, carried by the waves of time.

November 1998. I stood on the brink of a decision that felt as vast as the ocean I was about to cross. Sixty-four days at sea, leaving behind family, friends, and the familiar rhythms of life in Toronto. It was, without doubt, a challenging choice. I’d never spent time at sea or even curious. I wore landlocked shoes of indifference. Kristine and I clung to each other in those final moments—kisses punctuated by nervous laughter, the kind that dances around uncertainty. Every emotion imaginable swirled between us, pulling at our insides like an undertow.

I knew what I was trading. The separation would cut deep, but I was willing to endure it for what lay ahead: momentary financial security, the thrill of new adventures, a trove of photographs waiting to be captured, and the music—the anchor that always held me steady. Not to mention, I was leaving behind the icy grip of an impending Ontario winter, its gray skies and biting winds best observed from afar.

The experience reminded me of those last months in the army, where every soldier marked time with almost religious precision. Days became tallied strikes on a calendar, each backslash carving a path toward freedom. It was an act of endurance, a countdown to reunification. I told myself this voyage was no different—a finite stretch of days that would pass, one by one, until I was back where I belonged.

Terminal 2 greeted us with its usual blend of order and chaos, the steady hum of travelers punctuated by tearful goodbyes and the hollow clatter of baggage tumbling onto scales. We arrived with time to spare—ample enough for a few lingering farewells, a quick check of the bags, and a smooth claim of tickets. But, as is often the case with Air Canada, fate threw a curve. The flight to Montego Bay was oversold, a classic move—betting on no-shows to hedge their bottom line.

I was headed south with the Sea Princess, a woman whose voice could shatter glass or melt steel, depending on the tune. The Midnight Lounge would be our home for the next 64 days, the ship’s pulse beating beneath our performances. But for now, we were relegated to the purgatory of the standby list. The deal? If the flight filled, we’d be compensated—graciously, of course—and rebooked on a later one. A polite nod to misfortune dressed as corporate generosity.

Thankfully, entertainers ranked high in the pecking order, so our mini drama resolved itself before it could escalate. The same couldn’t be said for the Princess’s husband, a drummer, whom I’d taken to calling Buddy Itch. Picture a man wound tighter than a pick pocket, pacing the terminal like an escapee about to be dragged back to the yard. Every movement was a study in paranoia—a furtive glance here, a nervous shuffle there. Kristine watched him with a growing unease, her patience stretched thin.