Chapter 19
Day 3 - Port of Call, Cabo San Lucas
I t was a new day, Maureen thought, determined to cast Tony the Manchild and his self-defence whistle from her mind. Still, the memory of those curious onlookers – who upon hearing the shrill whistle blast had poked their heads around the Havana Lounge to see if an emergency lifeboat drill was happening – was mortifying. She’d herded them back inside the lounge before slinking to the bar to order the drinks she was supposed to be fetching. All she could hope for was that the magnificent champagne waterfall in the Atrium later that evening, as couples posed alongside it for professional photographs in their formal attire, had wiped the memory of the emergency lifeboat drill that never was from their minds.
Slipping into her Mo-pants, Maureen readied herself for a lovely zen sunrise yoga session on the Lido deck. She hoped it would restore her equilibrium because she’d not slept well. Her dreams had been peppered with court appearances where she was charged with being a cougar by a judge who was as sinewy as a chewy piece of chuck steak. Donal had already staggered off to the gym, still half-asleep, as he left the cabin in his least favourite pair of walk shorts with pockets, declaring them his workout shorts from hereon in. Maureen hoped Donal had listened when she called after him to warm up before leaping on the treadmill. Given that they’d be traipsing around Cabo San Lucas later this morning he’d need his sturdy walking legs. Mind you, she thought tucking her singlet top in, it would serve him right if he did suffer. She was still annoyed with his reaction to last night’s mortifying pop-up-jewellery-stand incident. He’d roared with laughter when she came clean about what had happened with the Manchild.
If Donal thought she'd rub the Deep Heat on his legs later, like Moira and Aisling did Tom and Quinn when they stepped up their Dublin Marathon training, he had another thing coming. For one thing, she’d not packed a tube in their first aid kit, and the E45 cream would be next to useless although it might help clear up the dry patch on his knee. And, for another, she wasn’t so inclined.
Maureen slipped her Bendy Yoga Ladies pink jacket off the hangar and put it on even though it was likely too hot to wear. Nobody could say she didn't support her daughters and their enterprises because she wanted to look the part and seize the opportunity to promote Roisin’s Bendy Yoga Studio internationally.
Now, where were her flip-flops?
The Lido deck was quiet, given the early hour, and the day was temperate and golden. She’d been right; it was too warm for a jacket, even at this early hour. For now, though, she’d keep it on until she’d given all the yoga devotees gathered for their sunrise session a good gawp at it. It was smart marketing because who knew? One of the passengers might be holidaying in Dublin in the future, feeling the need to stretch. They’d remember the woman in the snazzy pink jacket and its logo on the back advertising a Bendy Yoga Studio in Howth. The word would spread when whoever returned to their own country about the excellent yoga workout they’d had in Howth and then, before you knew it, Rosi would turn her Bendy Yoga Studio into a franchise and go global. All of which was thanks to this. She stroked the satiny fabric of the pink jacket.
Still and all, Maureen thought, unzipping it, she wasn’t game to flash the jacket about Cabo San Lucas later because she guessed the day would have cranked into a scorcher by noon. A glance at her watch revealed five minutes until the 7am session began. She could see the mats were set out and slowly filling but she was eager to see if she could catch a glimpse of their first port of call even though they weren’t due to arrive at the resort city until 11am. So she flip-flopped over to the ship’s railing instead.
‘Oh, would you look at that,’ she breathed to the lone seagull perched on the rail, referencing the vista of glistening blue. Shading her eyes with her hands, she could see the haze of land in the distance. The view was more shimmery than her silver lamé gown, and she thought that was saying something.
Maureen’s peripheral vision spotted movement and then she turned to see a woman in a fitted tank top and leggings hurrying past. Her heart sank. It was Christie, the Director of Entertainment. It would seem she was a woman of many talents. Pub quiz master, table tennis referee and yoga instructor. Maureen mooched over to the small gathering of women taking their places and stretching on the mats set out. Determined to get off on the right foot with Christie, she called out a good morning. ‘Donal dedicated the “Daytime Friends” song to you last night, Christie, like he promised he would.’
Christie’s eyes narrowed as she clocked who’d joined the session. ‘You do realise yoga is non-competitive or combative, right?’
‘I’m a regular on the Howth yoga circuit, Christie; my daughter has her own studio, so you don’t need to tell me that.’ Maureen spun round to give Christie a glimpse at the logo on the back of her jacket, then picked out a pink mat, subconsciously colour-coordinating. Remembering her stern word about warming up to Donal, she warmed up with a few lunges. They had the added benefit of ensuring everyone got a good look at her jacket, and sure enough . . .
‘Honey, I love that jacket. It’s so Rizzo from Grease . And where did you get those yoga pants? They look super comfortable.’ A woman with a genuine Southern drawl around her age spoke up. She was sprawled on the mat next to Maureen’s, plucking at her leggings. ‘These are okay, aside from being able to see what you had for breakfast in them. And I had a plate that was all business for breakfast yesterday. I mean, I’m talking eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, and don’t get me started on lunch and dinner.’
Maureen smiled. ‘You’re not alone there and thanks a million. These here,’ she pulled at the fabric of her legwear, ‘are Mo-pants.’ She was about to tell the woman about her entrepreneurial yoga pant journey, swiftly following it up with a rundown on the Bendy Yoga Studio, when Christie eyeballed her and instructed them all to lie down comfortably. Maureen discarded her jacket, flapping it out to give anyone whose eyes were open one last look before taking up her position. She lay prone on the mat, feeling the rigid boards of the ship beneath her, and shut her own eyes.
Christie’s voice was soothing as Maureen let the Director of Entertainment’s words wash over her.
‘Begin by taking a long, slow inhale past your ribs. Let your breath fill your belly, pushing it up.’
Maureen, peeking, noticed bellies popping up all over the show; it was a veritable mountain range of tummies.
‘Exhale all the old air out and let the energising sea air work its magic.’
Maureen did so, but it wasn’t sea air she could smell. Instead, the tempting aroma of sizzling rashers teased her. Her stomach rumbled audibly, and she apologised to the woman on her left and the man on her right, doing her best to concentrate on her breathing. It was no good; she wasn’t getting into the flow of it because the bacon was very distracting and, she thought, her eyes narrowing as she side-eyed the man on her right, there was always one . Her toes curled as he began exhaling extra noisily through his nostrils. She thought the heavy breathers of the yoga world were so annoying. And yes, all right, Rosi had explained this was called Ujjayi breathing and was supposed to sound like a victorious ocean breath. Well, yer man there sounded more like a chronic sinusitis sufferer, and he wasn’t very good at following instructions. Christie hadn’t instructed them to do the Ujjayi breathing. He’d gone rogue on the breathwork.
At last, the class got properly underway with a series of stretches, which Maureen was familiar with, and soon progressed to a round of sun salutations. She was managing to tune Mr Heavy-breather out as they flowed into a proud warrior stance but, as she looked at her fellow warriors, she felt compelled to speak up. ‘Excuse me, Christie,’ she called to where Christie was in the side lunge pose with her arms outstretched, ‘you’ve locked your back knee there, and so’s everyone else. My daughter Rosi, you know, who owns a yoga studio. She’s always quick to tell her students to soften their back knee when they’re lunging. You don’t want to strain your ligaments like so, and it stops you from engaging your other muscles.’ Maureen was gratified to see a mass unlocking of back knees.
A variety of expressions flitted across Christie’s face before she said through gritted teeth, ‘Thank you, er—’
‘Maureen O’Mara.’ Maureen beamed over at Christie, sure she’d just ingratiated herself back into the Director of Entertainment’s good books. ‘From Ireland; Christie already knows I’m here as part of the crew,’ Maureen addressed the small group of keen yoga devotees. She told them she was the tambourinist and guest vocalist with The Gamblers, a Kenny Rogers tribute band, who played each evening in the Havana Lounge.
‘Okay, moving right along into a pose I think some of us might find especially beneficial: humble warrior,’ Christie instructed.
There was no call for Maureen to speak up again until she was standing on her right leg, her left leg crooked, and resting on her calf, her arms outstretched in tree pose. She tried channelling a majestic oak tree but felt she was more ‘spindly poplar precariously swaying in a gale-force wind’. ‘Excuse me, Christie,’ she called over, ‘Rosi likes to tell her pupils to imagine that their grounded foot is a tree root extending deep into the ground.’ She wished she could do the soothing yoga voice, but it wasn’t in her repertoire, as she added with another full wattage beam, ‘It can be helpful.’
Feeling like the teacher’s pet after class thanks to her handy tips, she bustled up to Christie. She told her about Rosi’s impending holiday aboard the Mayan Princess and how she’d only be too happy to swap yoga notes with her.
Maureen was a little put out that instead of a grateful smile and, ‘That would be wonderful, Maureen,’ Christie looked as though she had overindulged on last night’s fish curry. Oh well, she thought, there was no time for further chit-chat anyway: she and Donal were due to meet the lads and Carole in the Lido Buffet restaurant for breakfast at eight-thirty in readiness for their day in Cabo San Lucas. She’d need to go and shower for the exciting day of exploring that lay ahead.