Cruising in the 1970s and 1980s: What It Was Really Like

And, suddenly, it’s 1978. I’m on the sundeck of Home Lines’ mv Oceanic, a 39,000 grt ship that sails regularly from New York City, and a young Italian crew member is asking me which deck chair I’d like. I point one out, hand him the $5 bill that will secure my chair for our 7-day sailing from New York to Bermuda and am told that I should see him whenever I wish to lay out. He’ll bring me towels.

The Oceanic (right) and Atlantic at New York in 1985. From the William H. Miller collection. — The *Oceanic* (right) and *Atlantic* at New York in 1985. From the William H. Miller collection.

That scene rose from the depths of my memory last week when a friend complained about the chair hogs she encountered on a recent sailing. “Maybe the cruise lines should charge for deck chairs!” she chuckled, as if it was the most ridiculous idea in the world. I, catapulted back to 1978, looked at her and said “At one point, they did.” At least the chairs in the most desirable locations.

My very first cruise was in 1976 aboard Carnival Mardi Gras. I tell people that today and they immediately say “Oh! The ship with the roller coaster on the top deck!” Um…no. That’s today’s Mardi Gras. The ship I sailed was scrapped in 2003 and, trust me, it had no roller coaster. Hell, we were lucky when the toilets flushed.

And yet it was that cruise, that ship, that triggered my lifelong love of sailing. It was an experience that is oceans apart from cruising today thanks to technology, social and environmental demands and security concerns.

Climb into the time machine and join me, if you will, for a look back at cruising in the 1970s and early 1980s (keeping in mind that it’s about 50 years later so my memory might not be exactly what it had been).

Bon Voyage!

Sailing away? Invite friends and family to celebrate! All they need do is purchase a $1 pass at the cruise ship terminal. Most guests carried aboard booze a plenty, gift baskets and decorations for the lucky travelers. The party continued until an announcement advised that all visitors were to disembark and from there, they assembled at the pier to wave goodbye while those sailing assembled at the ship’s rail, throwing colorful streamers and confetti. Just like on “The Love Boat.”

Those photographers caught you even when you weren't looking. Credit: Judi Cuervo — Those photographers caught you even when you weren’t looking. Credit: Judi Cuervo

Cutting Class

As slightly rebellious and rather dumb teenagers, it didn’t take me and my friends very long to realize that if you remain in your cabin and stay very, very quiet, you could skip that pesky life boat drill entirely and get a jump on unpacking while your shipmates learned how to…well…survive in case of an emergency. That party ended when Holland America began taking attendance at the boat drill and other lines followed suit.

BYOB (Bring your own Blowdryer)

The blow dryer sitting in its cloth bag beneath your vanity wasn’t always part of the amenities in your cabin. Instead, most of us ladies with hair-a-noia purchased a travel-sized one to take aboard, hoping that a suitable outlet (not the bathroom one that was for razors only) was positioned somewhere near a mirror. On some ships, however, blow dryers were banned altogether and, instead, a special room down the corridor was equipped with blow dryers, ironing boards and irons. Most of us walked down to them in our pajamas.

Me (ignore the hideous perm) and my mom, Phyllis Cuervo. "P. Cuervo's" ship ID often went missing. Credit: Judi Cuervo — Me (ignore the hideous perm) and my mom, Phyllis Cuervo. “P. Cuervo’s” ship ID often went missing. Credit: Judi Cuervo

Up in Smoke

Want to light up? Go ahead! You may do so in your cabin, in the bars, on deck, in the casino or in the dining room — you’ll even find a sand-filled ashtray the size of an oil drum near each bank of elevators. If verandas were commonplace then, there’d be a cigar smoker on each one, puffing away unchallenged. On some older ships, you can still see a little metal ashtray attached to the bathroom wall alongside the toilet. That’s particularly gross, if you ask me.

You could always count on an ashtray at the bar...and everywhere else! Credit: Judi Cuero — You could always count on an ashtray at the bar…and everywhere else! Credit: Judi Cuero

The Guaranteed Scare

There I was, cruise obsessed with few friends who had the interest or money to accompany me on my sailings. Enter The Guaranteed Share Program, whereby you’d share a cabin with a complete stranger of the same sex in order to eliminate the single supplement.

GS 1: Success! I alone had signed up for the program so the cabin was mine!
GS 2: Another success! I shared with a lovely older woman who once noticed where I was putting my dirty clothes and included them when she did her laundry.
GS 3: The end of my participation in the program thanks to a woman who snored like an animal and was bat sh*t crazy.

**Snap Sh*ts**

Those cruise ship photographers were everywhere! Unlike today, they didn’t limit themselves to the gangway and posed or event shots. Instead, they’d prowl the dining room snapping away, often mid-meal. The next day you’d find a 5” x 7” print of yourself, a half-eaten chicken leg on the plate in front of you, displayed in the photo gallery. And you’d buy it. Of course you’d buy it… because you’d have no idea what you snapped on that Instamatic camera of yours until you returned home and had the film developed.

My assigned table and tablemates during my very first cruise in 1976. Credit: Judi Cuervo

Officers and Gentlemen, Usually

In the 1970s and 1980s, it seemed as if ship officers were expected to socialize with guests, act as dance partners, drinking buddies and sometimes even tour guides.

Officers...and drinkin' buddies! That's how it was in the old days. Credit: Judi Cuervo — Officers…and drinkin’ buddies! That’s how it was in the old days. Credit: Judi Cuervo

If the officers thought you were cool, you might even be invited to the Officers Bar, a private watering hole that was down a maze of endless corridors behind the “Crew Only” door. The best bar on the ship, the one disadvantage was lack of facilities. There was no restroom nearby—and we’d never find our way back if we entered the public area of the ship — so, aboard Cunard Countess, Donough’s cabin was our designated ladies’ room. Donough was a spectacularly untidy 19-year-old Irish sailor so a visit to the bathroom meant stepping on and around the piles of dirty clothing strewn across the cabin’s floor before arriving at a toilet that, trust me, no cabin steward had cleaned in 10 years.

Cash…or Traveller’s Cheques?

On my early sailings, drinks — and everything else on board — were paid for in cash. There was no credit card registration, no onboard account. Even when that changed, cruise passengers would often settle their accounts with American Express Traveler’s Cheques rather than a credit card.

Climbing the Ladder

Sure, inside cabins with upper and lower bunks still exist but at least now an attempt is made to make the cabin livable — uppers tend to fold away and are brought down only in the evening, and a curtain is positioned to trick you into believing a window is behind it. Not so years ago when the inside upper and lower resembled a holding cell at Riker’s. And just try climbing that ladder after a few cocktails, to say nothing of falling down the damn thing when you forgot where you were and needed a bathroom run at 3:00 a.m.

Those upper bunk ladders can be treacherous...particularly after a few cocktails. Credit: Judi Cuervo — Those upper bunk ladders can be treacherous…particularly after a few cocktails. Credit: Judi Cuervo

Party Crashers

That key card that you swipe when you disembark and embark the ship? The one that brings up the painfully unflattering security photo on the officer’s security screen? That was a thing of science fiction in the 70s (we had skeleton keys attached to slabs of plastic). Instead, guests toted a flimsy paper ID card, usually designated only with the guest’s first initial and last name, handwritten. When my husband Michael lived in Bermuda for a year before we were married, I’d sail down for visits, often with my mom, Phyllis Cuervo. I can’t tell you how often I’d leave the ship with both my and my mom’s ID card and — voila! — Michael would board for the evening, under the name P. Cuervo. Piece of cake.

Your ticket--literally--to board the ship for a bon voyage party! For sale at the ship's terminal. Credit: Judi Cuervo — Your ticket–literally–to board the ship for a bon voyage party! For sale at the ship’s terminal. Credit: Judi Cuervo

The Royal Flush

I still recall the first time I flushed a vacuum toilet. It was aboard the Nieuw Amsterdam in 1983. I thought the whole bathroom was going to explode. Until the advent of the vacuum toilet, you had a better chance of hitting the jackpot on a slot machine than you did of a successful flush.

I am often nostalgic for the early days of cruising — and I don’t just mean when I have to download cruise documents and my printer is on the fritz. I want a printed daily program, not an app and I don’t want to book my shore excursions on a website that may, or may not, get them right. I miss the days when packing meant clothes, swimsuits, shoes and toiletries, not phones, phone chargers, tablets and USB cables. And sometimes I long to arrive at a main dining room, elegantly dressed of course, for my late sitting dinner with a dedicated waiter and busboy and tablemates who always — always — feel like family by the end of the sailing.

Some might talk about the wonders of today’s lavish ships with their extravagant entertainment, water parks, specialty dining and sky rides but in the 1970s and early 1980s, we really didn’t need all those things. And sometimes I’m still not convinced we do.