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Out of synch with the thought of some contemporary Minnesotans, an extra-national (I hope such terminology will neither offend nor advocate) arriving on a foreign shore had best have their paperwork at hand.

Under the sheltering arms of technology, this can be done easily (they lie) done electronically in advance, with payment by card.

So far my guess is that payment explains all. Everyone onboard must pay.

I’d been under the seemingly safe illusion that not getting off the ship didn’t require temporary visa approval. I was wrong. Staying put or going ashore, you must pay. In French Polynesia they merely collect all passports. For some reason (the disease of cynicism having infected me) I anticipate a fee for having kept passports safely for us. What are the odds I’m wrong?

Are flying fish a life lesson? Some take solo flights while others rise in groups. I wonder why this is so. None of our native fish being known for flight I’ve nothing to go on.

Our pickerel and pike being flightless I can only guess flying fish are either after food or escaping danger. Some fly, seems to me, rather far. Except near port, no ships have been seen.

Any case, French Polynesia is a reminder of the way that at one time France, Spain, Holland, Portugal and England had (some still do) holdings all over the globe.

Minnesota certainly holds reminders of those times. Duluth, Brule, Cloquet, Gran Portage a few remnants from the early days of French control-influence. I doubt it’s at all unique that some native groups in Minnesota were aligned with the crown during the American Revolution. I suspect in many instances people were more apt to be “on” a side rather than taking one.

I was once enamored of southern seas with shores bursting with bathers unencumbered with outward signs of civilization.

Much younger, I had the happy notion that bliss and meaning were to be found bathing in the sea with dozens of obliging partners. Can you fault me?

I can point my attraction to the South Pacific to an English teacher with a knack for pacifying a crowded class of seventh graders by reading to us. She was a good reader, something can’t be said of any device or app I know of and will hopefully never be. I’m sure Willard Price wrote South Sea Adventure never knowing how Mini Johnson would mesmerize the unruly with his words.

Sardine packed, we hung in appreciation as Mini read.

Continued fascination with south seas had, I suspect, more to do with my naïve age where frolicking in ocean surf with scores of adventuresome age mates. As a mid-teen I was ever optimistic some overwhelming opportunity might stroke, all the more so with sandy beaches, a warm ocean and general nudity.

The south seas had distinctly sensual appeal. If nothing else those far off shores had more sensory allure than swimming bare (in my era the rule more than the exception) in the school pool. A tropical ocean was bound to win over chlorine pool water in northern Minnesota.

My musing aside, I can tell you some things not to say on a cruise that appears overstocked with geriatrics. More of a nursing home afloat, this isn’t a carnival affair.

Regardless, when someone, no matter how well dressed, speaks any of the popularly required codes it’s best not to do other than nod and feign agreement. So, when someone announced “We don’t learn from history,” it was a wrong thing to ask, “What history did we not learn from?”

Being unenlightened, I felt obliged to ask, so as to better fit in with the flow. A mistake. A haughty (seemed so to me) toss of head said “You should know.”

But, not knowing I went for the deep end of the pool. My manner of further inquiry, however, was flawed, relative to the situation, anyway. I asked, couldn’t help myself, “What history is it you understand that others fail to see? Is it perhaps Gordon at Khartoum or Sobieski at Vienna?”

In my experience when a professional woman gets angry her feet suddenly gain weight and her smile shows icicle teeth that sent a dentists progeny through grad school.

The concern isn’t being right or wrong, correct-incorrect. Would be easy if that were all. Instead, a clash is often impossible to addresse because the parties are fundamentally separated by beliefs. Science, politics or sociology (etc.) often come across as unassailable revealed truths.

Hark, ye, who believe the truth of identity – or class or color or rank or whatever distinguishing characteristic can be used to gain or bolster power, prestige or any of the other markers people learn to value, not to mention resistance to admitting a lack of knowledge or by admitting error show weakness.

Clumped together going ‘round the world it’s possible to see both human strengths and failings on view.

Twain was well aware of that as the Quaker City churned across the Atlantic on its way to whatever (some more optimistic than Sam about the prospect) the Holy Land would reveal.

Myself, I think seasickness (known as mal de mere in Lord Admiral Nelson’s day) is a better gauge of human nature than might be shown in an advanced degree or English proficiency.

Glibness does not make friends or show character. Sincerity does that. Pretense, ever necessary for the uncertain, is an offensive form of defense warning, as does a poisonous bug, others to keep a safe distance. 

In no way a gadfly, I prefer ordinary converse to the rigors of listening to a litany of great things and wisdoms achieved by people who can’t or won’t shut up. For me, not a sociable soul, it can be a tedious chore listening to talk that is too small.

But, going ‘round the whirl with others for 90 days forces re-evaluation. Much as I eschew (there’s a word underused) small talk, the jabber of fixers and zealots is more dangerous.

Zealotry would sacrifice us all for the sake of ideology. At least empty headed table talk doesn’t require personal preference to pass as universal good.