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He lives in the Hudson Valley. It was a little before midnight. No one cares what you do, and at least half the people onboard are shitfaced at any given moment. And anyway, watching Tyler try to skate drunk seemed like a fun thing to do. We tipped Carl, our favorite bartender at the Royal Flying Viking Lounge, and stumbled out into the warm tropical night.
The teens-only disco on the deck below long since shut down for the night. We took the elevator down past decks thirteen through six, the creepy residential decks that look like the hotel from The Shining , and got off at deck five. We wanted to see if the Pig and Whistle—which is an authentic British pub—was still open.
Tyler came out with a giant cardboard cylinder of ice cream, Caribbean Chocolate Hurricane, some of it already on his shirt. My heroic husband. We started gulping down ice cream but got spooked by faraway sounds of laughter. Down the stairs to deck four.
The casino deck. The casino deck is always open. At least we can take in views of the jungle coast from our barstools in the Royal Flying Viking. We can sit there and imagine a lone jaguar making a long journey through the thick, dark jungle, coming to the edge of the forest, dizzied by the endless, sparkling brightness of the ocean and the sky, looking out across the water and seeing us, this giant object, moving across his field of vision.