Cruise during the 'plague': how the passengers of the liner were hostages of COVID-2 on the ship for 19 months

When passengers boarded the MS Zaandam in March 2020, they were preparing for the journey of a lifetime. In a few days, they will be locked in their cabins on the ship due to COVID-19. No country will allow this ship to moor, reports TheGuardian.

Photo: Shutterstock

During the five-hour drive to the Buenos Aires docks, Claudia Ociani thought hard: should she take a cruise ship or cancel her birthday flight? With her husband, Juan, she discussed the recent spate of deadly virus outbreaks on cruise ships in Japan and California. “This cruise is different; it will be packed full of locals,” Juan assured her, and they felt more secure. He sacrificed so much to make Claudia's dream of a 14-day trip through the wilds of South America come true, and she loved him too much to show that she was numb at the thought of setting off.

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It was early March 2020, and the first wave of the Covid-19 virus was spreading not only in Wuhan, China, but also in Italy and Spain. In the UK, the total number of cases was 273; in Argentina there were less than a dozen, and it seemed like a northern hemisphere problem. “We’re going so far south,” Claudia told Juan in the car. “There will be a bunch of Argentines on this ship, maybe a few Chileans.”

"Flawless Fleet"

At the docks, they spotted their ship MS Zaandam. Baptized in May 2000, the Dutch-flagged vessel was reminiscent of an ocean liner from a bygone era. It was part of the nearly 150 year history of Holland America Line, who for decades have been the industry leader in service and style and have been known as "The Flawless Fleet".

Claudia and Juan have been together for 42 years. Claudia was exacting in details, loved to swim and ride a bike. She was an experienced psychologist, sociable, openly expressed her opinion. Juan, the quiet accountant, was in many ways her opposite. His mother was an immigrant from Bath, England; his father was from the Netherlands. But they managed, raising three children who gave them nine grandchildren.

When the couple boarded, they discovered that almost none of the passengers were from Argentina or South America. Their hopes of traveling with people from countries spared by this new deadly virus are gone. On board the Zaandam were 305 Americans, 295 Canadians, 105 French, 131 Australians and 229 British citizens.

With over 1200 guests and almost 600 crew members in attendance, Zaandam grew into a vibrant community comprising 10 decks, eight bars, two pools, a casino, paddle tennis court, art gallery, library and a concert hall with a capacity of over 500 people. As they prepared to sail, the dancers were warming up, the magicians were rehearsing, the members of the a cappella choir were singing melodies, and the masseurs were busy getting ready to receive passengers. Few passengers followed the news channels that would have warned them that on March 8, 2020, just 48 minutes before Zaandam's departure, the U.S. State Department issued a warning that was as unequivocal as it was unprecedented: "American citizens, especially those with comorbidities should not travel on a cruise ship."

On board the Zaandam, the musicians tuned their instruments.

The cruise was a once-in-a-lifetime chance to visit the Strait of Magellan, sail the Beagle Channel, sail the Darwin route and then cruise the west coast of South America to relive the 1911 Hiram Bingham Excitement, the discovery of Machu Picchu high in the Peruvian Andes. They will cross the Panama Canal, travel to islands in the Caribbean, and then land in Fort Lauderdale.

Below, in the holds, the quartermasters were stockpiling for the long journey. To feed all the passengers and crew on a ship like the Zaandam, a long voyage typically required 60 kg of vegetables, 000 eggs, 40 steaks, 000 cans of beer and soda, and hundreds of cases of wine. In addition to these carefully selected supplies, there was another traveler aboard the ship - a deadly stowaway, probably hiding in the lungs of a passenger or crew member.

Ahead of Zaandam's departure from Buenos Aires, Holland America's medical experts have sent out tips on how to protect yourself from coronavirus. Dr. Grant Tarling shared the news in hilarious three- to five-minute videos posted on corporate websites. "Given recent events and general inquiries we've received about the health of travelers," Tarling said, looking into the camera in one video released in late February with a world map behind him, "you may want to bring your own thermometer." Tarling, the ship's lead medic, also demonstrated the correct sneezing position by placing his bent arm close to his nose. “If you cough or sneeze, do it into a tissue or into your bent elbow,” he said. His third piece of advice was: “Buy travel insurance.” The doctor advised passengers to read insurance coverage carefully to "ensure it is a 'cancel for any reason' type and covers many travel emergencies such as medical care and evacuation."

Shortly after landing, Claudia noticed that people were coughing. Everyone can see that those who cough are sick, she thought.

Holland America and its owner Carnival Corporation - the world's largest travel and leisure conglomerate with more than 100 employees and billions of shares - have already dealt with the virus on several other ships. Two Carnival ships - Grand Princess and Ruby Princess - have been hit by serious Covid outbreaks off the Pacific coast of the US and Australia, respectively. A few weeks earlier, Diamond Princess had been hit hard in Japan, with hundreds of people infected and at least nine deaths.

Nine days into the cruise, as the world went into lockdown, Claudia walked to the check-in counter. “How can the captain allow this? Allow people to gather in groups, so close to each other, if there is a pandemic?,” she asked. Claudia urged staff to take precautions to protect the ship from Covid. She walked through the ship, alarmed by the gathered older Europeans, Americans and Canadians who seemed oblivious to the threat. The gym, spa and hair salon were open and filled with people. This makes no sense, Claudia thought. Everywhere she looked, she saw evidence that Carnival Corporation was trying to live out its brand slogan, “Choose Fun.”

Home

In the cramped quarters of the crew, much closer to the waterline, the workers began to die. Some told their leaders about the disease; others continued to fight. Vivit Vidarto, the ship's laundry manager, felt tired and his muscles ached. He guessed it must be his workload, or maybe just a common cold. He and the rest of his crew worked nonstop, 10 to 12 hours a day, in stuffy, cramped ship laundries, trying to keep up. More and more passengers and crew members were spending more and more time in their cabins, which was expressed in piles of dirty sheets, towels and napkins.

The crew members made valiant attempts to contain the outbreak. They seemed to be everywhere, politely suggesting to passengers to wash their hands or use hand sanitizer. Self-service buffets were protected by plexiglass, and servers were placed every few meters to serve portions and minimize passenger contact with food. Even the US Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) and the World Health Organization were confused - can the virus live on surfaces? How long does he survive?

As the second week of the cruise wore on, Claudia and Juan were spoiled by fear. Near the Strait of Magellan, nervous locals protested the ship's arrival, fearing they could bring the virus to the remote Chilean city of Punta Arenas. Together with friends from Argentina, they drank tea in the cafeteria and avoided crowds. They were sitting near the wide front staircase—the one that always reminded Claudia of the staircase aboard the Titanic—when the announcement spooked them.

"Good afternoon. “This is your captain speaking from the bridge with an important announcement,” Captain Ene Smith began, addressing the entire ship. “I ask everyone to listen carefully.” The news was grim. Many passengers fell ill with an influenza-like respiratory virus. “Out of an abundance of caution, we must ask you to return to your cabins as soon as you have finished dinner,” the captain continued, “where, unfortunately, we will have to ask you to remain.”

Many cabins had less space than a one-car garage. Dozens of rooms were windowless. Claudia sat in the cabin with Juan, nervously looking out the salt-filled porthole or watching TV. Based on her experience as a psychologist, she knew that anxiety, fear, and depression were on the rise. Uncertainty ate at her.

Instead of a comfortable pillow for sleeping between happy hours and city tours, the cockpit was now like a cell for two. Food, once the main event, has now been shrouded in anxiety. Dinner was delivered in a strange way. Claudia heard a sudden yell of "Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee as as as as as as possible, and then the clang of a cart rolling down the hallway.

Opening the door, she found a tray on the floor. She washed every fork, knife and plate with bath soap. When the soap ran out, she switched to shower gel for glasses and a tray, which she carefully brought to the edge of the bed. Claudia and Juan looked at the food suspiciously. They chewed carefully, not enjoying a single sip of the free red wine. Juan and Claudia were supposed to go ashore in three days—their original itinerary was almost over—but now the whole schedule was blown up.

Frightened by the outbreak, the passengers called and insisted on calling the security services; Vidarto went into their cabins to personally change sheets or towels. Some of the guests were clearly ill, but he helped them as best he could. In addition to the load, Vidarto's employees fell ill one by one. He ordered them to go to bed, which meant that he and the rest of the staff had to work even harder. After three decades on cruise ships, Vidarto was a perfectionist, and that made him work harder at times like this. When he called his wife Annie in Indonesia, she noticed that his voice had changed. “You need to go to the doctor, the drugstore,” Annie said, growing more and more concerned. "You need to get help."

Vidarto explained that he went to the medical center, but there he was offered only paracetamol. Annie was shocked. “You need to stay strong, focus on yourself, get better,” she said, trying to cheer him up. Vidarto told her that he would do his best, but just before hanging up, he shocked his wife.

"Annie," he said, "please pray for me."

Vidarto wore a mask and gloves when he could, but is that enough to protect against any virus left on the sheets and pillowcases? It was rumored that Vidarto removed the sheets from the bed of a patient who could not walk and was taken to the medical center in a wheelchair. There were rumors that the passenger had died, but no one could be sure.

Vidarto faced more pressing problems. It was losing personnel at an alarming rate. During the previous three days they had been getting worse. Their cramped, stuffy workspace seemed to aggravate the cough. The two doctors on board weren't much help. A couple of attendants showed up at the infirmary and returned with nothing more than paracetamol and a bottle of cough syrup. Vidarto was depressed when he confessed to a friend, "I don't have a taste."

Rogue ship

As the Zaandam moved north along the western coast of South America, country after country announced increasingly stringent precautions to protect their populations. No one would risk allowing a cruise ship to dock, despite the intense efforts of the cruise line and diplomats to secure a safe harbor. The crisis grew day by day; an international pandemic was declared - the first in a century - and air travel ceased. The crew and passengers aboard the Zaandam became pariahs. No one knew anything about the new Covid virus, but cruise ships were considered giant incubators.

Warren Hall, a South African gynecologist who was chief medical officer on Zaandam, observed the few medical personnel in the bow of one of the lower decks. At the entrance there was a reception room and two examination rooms. The medical center had surgical instruments and medicines ready for emergency procedures. Further along the corridor there were four inpatient wards, equipped like in a hospital.

The medical staff had experience treating life-threatening diseases away from land: fatal heart attacks and falls were common among older passengers. But when the patients were in serious condition, the ship usually hurried to the port and unloaded the victim. Now the infirmary was overrun with coughing passengers and sick crew members who lined the corridor, waiting for their turn. Some looked like they could fall at any moment.

Passengers and crew also crowded into the tiny reception area. And in each of the examination chambers, the patient lay on his back. The cough was incessant. Two doctors and four nurses worked valiantly, but were overwhelmed.

As the outbreak spread throughout the locked ship, family members of those trapped on board launched social media campaigns to rescue their loved ones. They created a Facebook page and hundreds of people joined to share what they knew. Reporters began interviewing passengers who were pleading for help. Newlyweds from Mexico created a WhatsApp group during their honeymoon. They named it Zaandam Prisoners.

So they sailed the seas without knowing their destination, in some surreal, luxurious floating prison.

With no chance of escape, Claudia returned to a familiar role: caring. She called her friends on board and chatted merrily about the sun, the sea and the wind. Her top priority was an elderly couple who relied on sleeping pills to deal with the stress of quarantine. She knew that in situations of intense, prolonged stress or trauma, people tended to self-medicate with whatever was at hand: booze or, in this case, sedatives. Claudia was able to help calm them down by calling the ship's phone with soothing detailed descriptions of the scenes outside the cabin window, which she called "weather therapy".

The TV channel showed a live broadcast from the bow of the Zaandam, showing the open ocean in a wide-angle panorama. Instead of bringing calm and peace, the live broadcast once again emphasized that they plow the seas, and the destination is unknown. Claudia felt like she was imprisoned in some kind of surreal, luxurious floating prison.

In the medical center, the patients got worse and worse. John Carter, a 75-year-old man from north Devon, was one of the most critically ill. He was in critical condition for several hours. Dr. Hall diagnosed bacterial pneumonia caused by an unknown viral infection. When Carter's breathing worsened, Hall inserted a tube into his lungs and connected it to a ventilator.

Hall had only 11 oxygen tanks on board, and the ventilator was rapidly running out of supplies. Hall knew that the flood of elderly patients with respiratory problems would require much more oxygen. Without it, they may die. There was no doubt that Carter should have received it. But this was not enough, and Carter died. His grieving widow was left alone and could only speak on the phone with her family. They issued a statement on her behalf: "She is visibly upset and very scared ... she is struggling ... and not feeling well."

Downstairs, Vidarto tried to find the strength to call Annie at their home in Batam, Indonesia. Now he felt too sick to work in the stifling heat. But, as always, guests called and called, asking for fresh sheets or simply needing a conversation. Vidarto felt obliged to go to their aid. He gave Annie the best face he could when he called via WhatsApp. They exchanged greetings and Vidarto tried to calm Annie down.

“Please don’t be sad,” he said. - You must be a strong mother. For children".

Annie pressed him, trying to figure out what had happened. Finally, Vidarto admitted that he had a fever, and the cough intensified as never before. He thought that limited supplies of medicine were reserved for sick passengers and relied on home remedies such as hot lemon tea. Then he interrupted the conversation: he had to go. A passenger called and asked for a fresh blanket.

Annie was shocked. Why did Vidarto insist on working? He seemed aloof, in no hurry to answer.

“Please, please rest,” Annie begged. - Please. Don't work when you don't feel well."

"I can't. “I can’t afford it,” Vidarto finally answered. His voice broke. — Many of my employees are getting sick. Someone has to work."

"Please stay strong," Annie said as she wept.

Entering the third week of his odyssey, Zaandam sailed further north along the coast of South America; a flurry of diplomatic notes swept back and forth as American, Canadian, French and British diplomats insisted that the Ecuadorian government allow passengers to disembark.

But even if Zaandam were allowed to disembark passengers, there was no guarantee that Holland America would be able to secure permission to take them home. “I will ask our team in Quito, but early signals are poor as the government has closed travel and borders,” the US diplomat wrote in an email. “The governor of Guayaquil was very active in banning entry.”

There are few options left. Emergency medical services were in short supply everywhere. Wealthy people around the world, able to pay $25 or $000 for a private escape, have booked planes, helicopters and yachts to quickly get rid of the virus.

The navigators aboard the Zaandam, aided by Holland America's executives ashore, began to consider several options - would they be allowed through the Panama Canal? Should they head for the US port of San Diego? But the reality was clear: they were going nowhere. Passengers mostly obeyed the isolation orders. Sometimes small groups were taken out into the fresh air for 15 minutes, but the sight of masked crew members only increased the sense of danger. No one knew how many were infected, but the number of small red stickers posted on the doors of those who were thought to be infected with Covid was on the rise.

Possible rescue

As the ship anchored off the coast of Panama, reinforcements finally arrived. The Carnival Corporation ordered the sister ship Zaandam Rotterdam to sail down from Mexico. It had the main crew and no passengers. The plan was to alleviate the problem by transferring healthy passengers from Zaandam to Rotterdam. Additional medical supplies, personnel and support crew could also be brought aboard what the media now dubbed the "rogue ship".

Claudia was praying that she and Juan would be allowed to move when she heard a knock. She opened the door, and a crew member wearing a gown, gloves and mask delivered the good news: they were among the approximately 800 passengers who were allowed to transfer. They packed their suitcases and boarded the small boat known. Claudia was delighted to leave; she knew she was lucky. Their early precautions worked, as neither she nor Juan were infected. Now they were on a detour but a hopeful route home to Argentina.

However, on Zaandam, a raging outbreak struck many of the crew and passengers. Then, on March 27, Captain Smith went on the air again, this time with the grim news of the deaths of four passengers. One of them was John Carter. Another man collapsed on the way to the bathroom and died on the floor. Another suffocated, unable to breathe as his lungs were destroyed by Covid. The medical staff was inundated with calls and overworked, forced to run from one booth to another, and patients nevertheless waited for hours, and sometimes more, to see a doctor.

As Zaandam headed for Florida, mixed signals from the Trump administration thwarted Holland America's efforts to find a way to get dozens of people desperately in need of medical attention off the ships. It took endless rounds of negotiations between the cruise line, CDC officials, Florida health authorities, the White House and diplomats from a dozen countries to finally develop an evacuation protocol acceptable to all.

On April 2, 2020, almost a month after leaving Buenos Aires, a fleet of buses lined up at the docks at Port Everglades in Florida and most passengers from both Zaandam, and Rotterdam were allowed to disembark. A number of ambulances were also ready. One of the first people to be evacuated from Zaandam was Vidarto, who was now fighting for his life. Hall did everything he could, but Vidarto's condition worsened, the virus destroyed his lungs; he was in dire need of care in the intensive care unit.

After a few minutes, they moved Vidarto down the ramp and into the ambulance. The ambulance sped off. A medical team was waiting for him at Broward Health Medical Center in Fort Lauderdale. But the doctors weren't optimistic: During a video call, they told Annie that her husband was losing the battle, that his lungs were filling with fluid, and that they had done nothing to stop the deadly process. When that time came, doctors were only able to revive him with a defibrillator, betting that they could restore life to his body. But the procedure could have devastating consequences, the doctor warned; he may become paralyzed. Annie had to make a choice: did she want him resuscitated? Or would it be kinder to let him die? She discussed it with her family and they agreed. “If he passes out, let him die in peace,” she said. “This is what God would want to happen.” If God wanted him to be alive, he would be alive." Annie was only able to see him during a video call before his death.

Two dozen passengers were evacuated for medical reasons, but hundreds more were deemed fit to travel. Loaded onto buses and sent to airport terminals, they then traveled around the country and the world, and some of them were carriers of the virus.

Terrible cruise continues

Although hundreds of passengers left Zaandam and Rotterdam, Claudia and Juan were told they could not get off. Claudia waited a few hours and then called reception. It took a while to understand what was going on. “Oh, we are very, very sorry, but you will not come out,” the porter announced cheerfully.

"What do you have in mind?" Claudia asked.

“There was a problem with your flight to Argentina. We need you to stay on the ship a little longer while we work out a solution.

The Argentines are stuck in a bureaucratic stalemate. The same thing happened to hundreds of crew members as the CDC decided it was too dangerous to release potentially infected crew members into the public. Zaandam and Rotterdam left Florida and left US territorial waters, mooring off the Bahamas instead.

Day after day, the two ships sailed wherever they could, about nine passengers remained locked up. With the help of the cruise line, Claudia was unraveling the logistics of arranging a return voyage to Argentina when the captain's voice rang out over the ship's intercom. He seemed to give orders exclusively to the crew. It seemed to Claudia that they did not exist; that they were ghosts on a ghost ship.

“The staff will move to the second deck,” the captain announced. Or is that what Claudia thought he said. — Deck two, Juan? This is us, right?"

Soon a strong chemical smell entered their cabin. The pungent stench of the disinfectant seared her throat, making her flinch. Claudia grabbed her mask and ran out of the salon, desperately gasping for fresh air. Together with Juan, she ran to the exit. Outside, the sun blinded them for a moment. Claudia fell to the deck, gasping for air.

Claudia spotted the security camera and ran towards the tiny lens, screaming in Spanish for help. Soon one of the ship's officers arrived. Claudia scolded him for accidentally trying to poison them while they were disinfecting the ship. At first, the officer did not understand her machine-gun Spanish, but they were eventually transferred to a new room with a private balcony. Despite the upgrade, they felt like orphans, abandoned on an empty cruise ship with no sign of release.

Home Sweet Home?

In her second month at sea, Claudia was still locked up and furious as always. For another three weeks they circled the Caribbean Sea, waiting for the plane that would take them home. Claudia knew that her years as a psychologist provided exactly the emotional makeup she would need to survive this confinement. “I can’t cry and throw tantrums like a child,” she thought. What surprised her, however, was how difficult it was to apply her skills to a new patient: herself.

Finally, the Argentine government took care of the logistics and organized charters and sanitary "bubbles" that could bring Claudia, Juan and other citizens safely back to Uruguay and Argentina. It was the end of April 2020, seven weeks after Claudia and Juan went on a two-week holiday cruise.

In a statement, a spokesperson for Holland America Line said: "As the world's knowledge of Covid-19 has changed over time, Holland America Line has aligned its behavior with guidance from the CDC, the World Health Organization and other local health authorities." They said of the stories in this article: “While some of the statements do not match the memories of our team members who were there, this should not detract from the importance of the Zaandam story, its guests and team, and people from all walks of life who dealt with the devastating first weeks of mysterious virus. We mourn all those who lost their lives due to Covid-19 and are grateful to those who helped get our fleet back to sail today with a strong commitment to health and safety.”

When Claudia walked to the door of her seaside apartment in Mar del Plata, Argentina, the country was under the brunt of the virus. Thousands were ill, rigid isolation was introduced. The official death toll was about 200 people.

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Inside her home, instead of relief, Claudia felt vulnerable. Nothing was normal. Her favorite activities were banned in the conditions of self-isolation. No more swimming with girlfriends. No more rehearsals with the theater company. Even the smell of her house had changed. Or is she?

Before the Zaandam odyssey, before Covid, Claudia and Juan carefully chose an apartment with an ocean view. The windows of their living room were framed by a wide slice of the Atlantic. Now her panorama seemed a mocking reminder, as if she was still trapped in the sea. As Claudia looked out of her window, she couldn't help but feel like she was on the balcony of a cruise ship. With a quick glance at the smooth surface of the waves, Claudia pulled back the curtain and said to herself: "A view of the ocean is enough for now."

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