Very soon my husband and I will be leaving for a Caribbean cruise! I’ve got to say that I can’t wait for my four senses to be pampered. And on that note, I can’t help but wonder if I’m losing something in the cruising experience by not being able to smell.

I wonder, what does a cruise ship smell like? I imagine it would smell like a combination of things (food and salt water?) like I’m told most places do. I think I’m going to have to persuade Alan to take some time off from writing his novel to write a description for me.

I double-checked my smell dictionary and I do have a few vacation related entries for beach, ocean, and seashells. So, in celebration of our upcoming cruise, here are those entries from Alan Ackmann’s Smell Dictionary:

Beach

The beach smells like an infant discovering itself for the first time, realizing it
has amazing potential for destructive or constructive force. It is the understanding that greater currents move. It is first light, falling asleep in a hammock, rocked gently with a breeze. It is a light blue mixed with orange (for the life). It is the texture of a pupilless eye on the statue of a saint. It is the hollow echo of tapped marble, and the melting block of ice on its way from the cellar to the farm. Level of Intensity: 4 (4-6-03)

Ocean

Certain smells defy comprehension–-accompanying concepts so immense
they dwarf their surroundings. The ocean is one of these smells. It permeates a seaside town, massaging other aromas. One detects the ocean blocks (or even miles) away, and it is quite literally like smelling the taste of saltwater. Mind you, this is purified ocean; bilge or barbecue or kelp or any number of things can toss another shade, but these are just colorings on the same blue canvas. The smell is scratchy, like breathing silt, but lingers gracefully. It is the cool sand six inches below the heated surface, the light skim of foam on the seashore, and an overarching canopy that, in a beachfront community, is omnipresent. Though you cannot see the ocean, you will always know its there. Level of Intensity: 7 (3-16-02)

Seashells

The ocean itself is an omnipresent canopy of scent, traveling the boulevards and by-ways of sea towns, slightly shifting the aroma of all smells it touches, like seasoning a soup to taste. By virtue of such assimilation, many artifacts associated with the ocean do not shed it willingly, and odors stay like suntans. A seashell or a bit of driftwood will, years (even decades) down the line, retain the cast of its ancestry. But the tone will be scaled down, like lamplight with a slightly dimmer shade. Still, when one sniffs the crevices of a seashell—the rippled canyon of a conch, or the sly folds of a slipper—he or she can detect a trace, vestigial remnant of the larger entity. Like the famous sounds of the ocean that echo inside, the smell will never die, just faintly fade away. Level of Intensity: 2 (3-15-03)