A Promenade of Peculiarities: Exercising My Way Across the Pacific

Ah, the cruise ship promenade—a place where humanity’s quirks congregate with the determination of ants at a picnic. Here I am, aboard the Queen Anne, trudging laps around Deck 3 in a hapless effort to offset the gravitational pull of the midnight buffet. 

Two and a half circuits equal a mile, a fact as dubious as the ship’s claim that the “rocking is gentle” (tell that to my knees, currently negotiating swells the size of small nations). Yet, amid the blue vastness of the Pacific, this teak-planked oval has become a microcosm of human absurdity, a stage where fashion, folly, and fervor collide like over-caffeinated shuffleboard players.  

Let us begin with the spent marathoners,a breed of men who’ve evidently mistaken the promenade for the London Marathon. Clad in sweat-stained T-shirts and headbands last seen in 1983, they barrel past with the urgency of someone fleeing a bee, hairy legs pistoning like overgrown metronomes. Their dedication is admirable, if slightly terrifying, particularly when they mow down slow walkers like bowling pins .  

Then there are the Oblivious Meanderers, drifting in a zen-like state of ignorance, AirPods surgically attached. Are they listening to cricket commentary? A podcast on the mating habits of the Pacific Lanternfish? One can only guess. They weave across the deck with the spatial awareness of a concussed sloth, forcing the rest of us into evasive manoeuvres worthy of an action film. I’ve taken to shouting “Whale on starboard side” just to watch them jump .  

Fashion, of course, reigns supreme. The promenade is a catwalk where designer safari meets midlife crisis chic, Chanel Ts rub shoulders with “cheese-string” bikinis. A distraction for the elderly, causing total mayhem and an immediate emergency call for a defibrillator.

Meanwhile, Bottega Veneta sneakers and Tod’s loafers squeak indignantly against the damp deck, their owners radiating a quiet desperation to be seen .  

Not to be outdone, the paint brigade, a crew armed with brushes and unbridled enthusiasm—tackles every immovable object with a zeal usually reserved for Renaissance frescoes. Railings, lifeboat gates, even napping octogenarians: if it doesn’t move, it gets a coat of “Battleship Grey.” The result? Senior officers now roam with sledgehammers, prying open freshly glued hatches like archaeologists at King Tuts tomb .  

And let us not forget the contrary strollers, those mavericks who march against the flow of traffic, faces set in grim determination. “Wrong way!” the crowd choruses, but they press on, martyrs to their Fitbits, convinced that clockwise is a capitalist plot. Their persistence is matched only by the sun catching couples, gliding hand-in-hand in Armani shades, their smiles so fixed they could double as figureheads .  

Amid this chaos, the crew remains unflappable, greeting us with pearly grins and “hellos” that suggest either impeccable training or a secret stash of Valium.

As I dodge knee braces, motorized wheelchairs, and the occasional flying fish, I’m struck by the promenade’s  charm. Here, the slow, the speedy, and the sartorially confused coexist in a glorious, sweaty ballet. It’s madness, yes—but the kind that makes you grin into the salt-tinged wind, grateful for the spectacle. After all, where else can you burn calories while pondering the existential weight of a trillion-pound debt or the plight of the Palestinians? .  

So, onward I plod, a stranger in a sea of eccentricity.

The Pacific may be vast, but humanity’s capacity for delightful absurdity? Infinite. Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s a buffet calling my name—and 2.3 laps left to earn that second treacle tart, topped with clotted cream.