i'm on a yacht

I'm on a Yacht

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I'm on a Yacht is a song featured in the My Little Pony Equestria Girls: Better Together animated short of the same name. The short was released on the Discovery Family GO! mobile app on May 5, 2019, and uploaded to the My Little Pony Official YouTube channel on May 24, 2019. It is performed by the Equestria Girls.

1 Production
2 Animated short summary
4 References

Production [ ]

Series producer and Hasbro creative executive Colleen McAllister came up with the initial concept for the short. [1]

Animated short summary [ ]

The Equestria Girls perform a music video parody of The Lonely Island 's " I'm on a Boat ".

Equestria Girls taking a group selfie EGDS41

References [ ]

↑ Katrina Hadley (2019-05-26). It was our Hasbro creative exec Colleen! . Twitter. Retrieved on 2019 May 26.
1 Characters
2 Twilight Sparkle (Sci-Twi)
3 Sunset Shimmer

I'm on a Yacht/International versions

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Slavic languages [ ]

My Little Pony
1 Characters
2 Twilight Sparkle
3 Pinkie Pie

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Equestria Girls: I'm On A Yacht Follow Up

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Equestria Daily

Pop Culture dictionary

I’m on a boat.

[ahym on uh boht ] or [I’m - awn - a - boht]

What does I'm on a boat mean?

I’m on a Boat is a viral comedy-rap song and video about the joys of boating. People allude to the song by saying “I’m on a boat” when on boats.

Where does I’m on a boat come from?

The hit single I’m on a Boat was released by The Lonely Island on February 3, 2009 and premiered on NBC’s Saturday Night Live as a Saturday Night Live: Digital Short on February 9, 2009. It features comedians Andy Samberg, Akiva Schaffer, and Jorma Taccone, alongside special guest rapper T-Pain, performing on a boat.

The digital short depicts Samberg and company as they bask in the luxury of a 221-foot “mega yacht.” Much of the song’s lyrics are bombastic and profane observations about being on a boat, such as “I’m on a boat motherfucker take a look at me, /Straight flowin on a boat on the deep blue sea.” The song and video are meant in part to parody the opulence flaunted in rap media.

I’m on a Boat became the #1 video on YouTube and the iTunes video charts shortly after its release. It received a nomination for Best Rap/Sung Collaboration at the 52nd Grammy Awards.

Examples of I’m on a boat

Who uses i’m on a boat.

People often humorously allude to the song by declaring in speech or text I’m on a boat when actually on a seafaring vessel. The phrase is typically proclaimed in a loud or obnoxious manner, similar to Samberg’s delivery in the music video, and it is often meant to express how being on a boat is a special experience

The allusion can be both sincere and ironic, and it is frequently referenced with nostalgia. In some instances, I’m on a boat is used to anticipate upcoming boat-based trips such as cruises, possibly with a nod to the song/video.

On April 9th, 2016, Elon Musk’s SpaceX successfully landed their Falcon 9 rocket on a drone ship floating in the ocean. Shortly after, Musk tweeted (and just as quickly deleted) a video of the landing with I’m on a Boat playing in the background.

This is not meant to be a formal definition of I’m on a boat like most terms we define on Dictionary.com, but is rather an informal word summary that hopefully touches upon the key aspects of the meaning and usage of I’m on a boat that will help our users expand their word mastery.

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Join the herd!

E14: I'm on a Yacht

By Thrond , User May 25, 2019

Poll 8 users have voted

1. did you like the short.

No, I hated it! >:( 3
I didn't like it. 2
Meh, it was okay 1
I liked it! 0
I LOVED IT! <3 2
Please sign in or register to vote in this poll.

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I am confused by this.

Poll is up, so vote in that I guess.

1 month later...

Cash In 21,297

To be honest, there were a lot of things wrong with this one. I mean, the animation was pretty good and the song wasn't horrible, but it really fell flat on it's face. There were way too many moments where I had just pause the video, because of how much I cringed - Spike's part especially. Aside from that, I don't think I can form much of a solid opinion on it.

Solar Power 231

I'm the only one who loved it, it seems.

4 weeks later...

Justin_Case001 4,855

To understand why this song sucks so bad, we must uncover the magic of The Elements of Cringe!

The most annoying part to me is how they call themselves EG. Why would they do that canonically?

4 years later...

snowstreak04 6

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I'm on a Boat

Part of a series on the lonely island . [view related entries].

PROTIP: Press 'i' to view the image gallery , 'v' to view the video gallery , or 'r' to view a random entry.

This entry contains content that may be considered sensitive to some viewers.

I'm on a Boat is a music video parodying various rap clichés by the comedy group The Lonely Island featuring auto-tuned vocals by rapper T-Pain. Like other music videos by the group, it has inspired the creation of many parodies and spin-offs on YouTube .

The song debuted on the sketch comedy television show Saturday Night Live as a digital short on February 7th, 2009. On June 16th, it was uploaded to the LonelyIslandVevo YouTube channel (shown below), where it received over 24.7 million views and 17,500 comments over the next four years. The video parodied clichés often found in rap music videos, including "Big Pimpin'" by rapper Jay-Z .

Several YouTubers began making parody versions of the video set in a variety of contexts. On May 2nd, 2009, YouTuber CardGamesFTW uploaded a parody titled "I'm on a Blimp," featuring footage from the animated television series Yu-Gi-Oh (shown below, left). Within the next four years, the video accumulated more than 1.09 million views and 7,000 comments. On September 4th, YouTuber tadpole256 uploaded a video in which sailors lip sync the Lonely Island song while aboard a Navy vessel (shown below, right). Within four years the video received over 231,000 views and 700 comments

On October 19th, YouTuber ej6inmiami uploaded a balloon boy parody of the video (shown below, left), receiving upwards of 900,000 views and 4,500 comments in the coming four years. On December 3rd, the song received a Grammy nomination for Best Rap/Sung Collaboration. On December 28th, YouTube pantlessknights submitted an Apple fanboy version of the video (shown below, right), which accumulated over 2.02 million views and 10,000 comments within four years. As of February 2013, a Facebook [1] page titled "I'm on a Boat (ft. T-Pain)" has garnered more than 250,000 likes.

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[1] Facebook – Im on a boat

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The unspoken rules about how to behave on a superyacht

The superyachting world is very small, with only 5,800 yachts longer than 30 meters at sea.
That insularity has bred a specific etiquette, which is often hard for outsiders to know about.
These are the de facto rules of the most expensive billionaire toys, superyachts .

For the owners of superyachts , privacy is often the most valuable thing money can buy. It's one reason centimillionaires and billionaires pay eight or nine figures for a palace at sea, far from the prying eyes of land dwellers.

Even the most gossipy crew members should stay tight-lipped about the name of a former owner or charter guest, and many brokers shy away from answering benign questions.

That means that, aside from basic safety guidelines, most of the rules of superyachting are unwritten. The very few who need to know them — there are only about 5,800 yachts longer than 30 meters at sea, according to SuperYacht Times — already know them.

But if you do happen to be a lucky guest at a party on a billionaire's $500 million ship or find yourself included in a $1 million-a-week vacation, there are a few things you need to know.

After four days of touring superyachts that sell for as much as $75 million and chatting with the people who buy, sell, and work on them at the Palm Beach International Boat Show , Business Insider gleaned a few key edicts. Given the discreet nature of the industry, almost all the people we spoke with requested anonymity to protect their working relationships, but here's what they had to say.

Take off your shoes

While it's a basic rule for anyone in boating, it may come as a surprise to an outsider that no matter how rich you are or how expensive your heels are, in the vast majority of cases, you can't wear shoes on board.

It's partly for safety — you don't want anyone slipping on a wet deck — but partly to keep the yacht clean. So expect to see barefoot billionaires, and if you forgot to get a pedicure, bring a set of special boat shoes.

Don't make any assumptions about money — but know the signs

In the superyacht world, it's safe to assume almost everyone you meet is very, very rich, and many brokers and builders say you can't judge a book by its cover when it comes to prospective clients.

"It has nothing to do with how they're dressed," one broker told BI. "It's the biggest mistake you can make because a complete slobby-looking guy or couple could be a multibillionaire."

There are, however, a few clues. Watches are one; new footwear is another.

"Rich people always have new shoes," a superyacht expert said. But because of the shoe rule mentioned above, this tip probably applies only when they're on land.

Book your massage early

Wellness areas, including spa rooms with a massage bed or two and a professional-grade facial machine, are becoming must-haves on superyachts . Most have a customized spa menu and a crew member who doubles as a trained masseuse or beautician — and they're usually in high demand.

One captain said he'd implemented a booking system to ensure people weren't fighting for the same spots. A broker said sometimes masseuses would be so busy they wouldn't leave the small spa cabin for hours on end.

Pirates are more real than you'd think, and many superyachts have hidden safe rooms

While you might dress up as a fake pirate for an onboard theme party, there are very real ones — and other dangers — on the high seas.

In certain areas, including parts of the Indian Ocean and the Gulf of Aden, pirates are a cause of concern . In the Red Sea, owners are concerned about the Houthis .

Superyachts can come equipped with sonic weaponry, lockdown systems, and anti-drone protection. Builders are even designing safe rooms — which are apparently just as plush as the rest of the ship.

The longer the boat, the closer to $1 billion

While you can't judge a buyer based on appearances, you can judge them on the length of their boat.

One rule of thumb: If someone has a brand-new 50-meter vessel, chances are they have $1 billion to their name. If it's over 100 meters, expect the owner to have at least $2 billion. And for a boat bigger than that — like Jeff Bezos' 127-meter megayacht Koru — it takes many, many billions.

Money can't buy you everything

The world's biggest, most expensive yachts are custom-built by shipyards that produce only a handful of boats a year.

But no matter how many tens of millions of dollars clients are spending, there are things to which builders will refuse to say yes.

"In the end, the boat has our name," an executive from one of the world's biggest shipyards told BI.

They recalled a client who requested a yellow hull to match his Lamborghini . The shipyard declined, steering the client in another direction.

"If I don't like it, I don't build it. I finalize two or three contracts a year," another builder said. "If somebody can say your vessel is ugly, my reputation is bad."

Yacht crews are trained to make the impossible possible. A guest requests fresh caviar flown into the middle of the Caribbean? No problem. Fresh flowers every day while at sea? It'll cost you, but it can be done.

But they can't time travel, and captains and crew members say the thing that causes the most friction is when a client or owner wants to go from point A to point B — right now.

"The hardest request is when they want the boat in a place — yesterday," one captain said.

The best person to know? A friend with a superyacht

Superyachts are expensive to build and expensive to maintain . According to the industry standard, owning a superyacht will cost 10% of its new-build price annually. For a $100 million yacht, that's at least $10 million yearly going to crew, regular maintenance, insurance, fuel, and dockage.

Chartering, too, is costly . Beyond the list price, which can be hundreds of thousands a week, guests must pay for provisions, which are pegged at 35% of the charter fee, and are expected to tip between 10% and 20%.

So the most important unspoken rule of superyachting is actually that the only thing better than owning a superyacht is knowing someone else who does — and invites you along, of course.

Watch: Why it costs $1 million a day to run one of the world's biggest cruise ships

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Artists add
I'm on a Boat
The Lonely Island

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Lyrics submitted by bswimr127

I'm on a Boat Lyrics as written by Faheem Najm Adam Blake Cherrington

Lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group, Peermusic Publishing, Kobalt Music Publishing Ltd.

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best song ever. they're on a boat.

5 Replies Log in to reply

i love that song. its the best. great

you fucking people are on drugs!! if god were reading this he would be rolling on the floor of his boat laughing in his flippy floppies

I'm flipping burgers, you at Kinko's Straight flipping copies! Ever get the impression you don't have a sense of humour? Or yours is particularly rubbish. Cause I do... about yours that is... not mine. I'm the freckin King of Comedy.

Me: I'M ON A BOAT! I'M ON A BOAT! Girlfriend: No, you're not. You're not on a fucking boat.

Dialogue repeated over the last three days.

3 Replies Log in to reply

That's hilarious! I should do that.

funi that got a laff from me! IM ON A BOAT IS THE BEST SONG EVER!!

hehehehehe thats funny.

Yeah My Take on This too..... I dont wanna go into too much detail.... But I'm Pretty Sure They're on a boat

No Replies Log in to reply

I'm on a boat and DON'T YOU EVER FORGET

I think this song has a deeper meaning, you know it's about the feeling you get when somebody has betrayed you and you feel this feeling of not being worth anything. It's like first love and all you know, it's hard to explain...

sorry, just trying to be pretentious

4 Replies Log in to reply

nice try but sry ur not rele making sense...

Learn to spell you fucking moron.

first what the fuck do u mean by the song has meaning? comedians wrote this, so its a joke. second for leakeg, yesitsme is writing in text! so be less mean!

You guys are over simplifying this song. Like most rap songs, its meaning is much deeper than it appears.

It's clear by the theme of this song that the boat is a metaphor for Jesus Christ. No one can stop them, and everyone should take notice (as they claim in the lyrics) because their faith is so firmly planted.

The references about the experience on the boat be wonderful can be equated to happiness that leading Christian life brings, and the sadness and emptiness the opposite imposes.

Near the end of the song the lyrics suggest that they thought they'd never be on a boat, which is obviously a silly thing to say since "being on a boat" in not a difficult goal to reach :P With these lyrics they are emphasizing that its a silly thing to think you can't or won't be accepted to the Kingdom of the Lord. All you need to do is accept Jesus Christ into your life, you can find out more at thetruthforyouth.com

"Like Kevin Garnett, anything is possible!"

12 Replies Log in to reply

That is a joke, right? Both Andy Samberg and Akiva Schaffer are Jewish...

Oh GOD really? I guess I'll have to stop listening to their music. I sure hope Jorma isn't, he's my hero. /autobots-roll-out

Even if they weren't jewish, how is talking about being on the MUTHA FUCKIN' boat about Christ or his message?

fact: you just ruined all the fun. thankss.

SM doesn't reply well to trolling I laughed though

And is "I Fucked a Mermaid" their expression of their disbelief that something so awesome could be so easy?

Yes because all Christians say f * and B*** and S every four seconds

This is hillarious. Since when do people proclaimming "the gospel" go around cussing and swearing and talking about fucking mermaids ... ? No. They are not talking about their faith being firmly planted. They are not talking about faith at all. Humour me: why would people use a multitude of cuss words and such to tell people about how beautiful and wonderful and morally pure God is? And no. Because if you'd talk to any christian (because you obviously aren't one) you'd know that being on the 'christian boat' isn't fun nor easy as the boat on this song is. If anything, this song is saying a big "fuck you" to the church rather than the opposite. I think this song is talking about having reached the top - they're famous, flying high, and can do whatever they want. They're finally "on the boat" - but we're still stuck on the sand. Now, my interpretation may be wrong, but I definetly know this is not religious propaganda. Anyways, props to you for that post. It was pretty hillarious. Comparing this song to finding God? Fucking brilliant. It sure got a laugh from me.

Rated +1 I agree with GarettM. The song is obviously about Jesus. Maybe it's about Jesus being on a boat. So, maybe it's about Jesus and his disciples being on a boat, and the boat is compared to there faith in God? I think at the towards the end of the song, when they say they never thought they could be on a boat, I think they refer it to Jesus walk on water, and well, they're on a boat and there was a storm. And how Peter is afraid and doesn't have enough faith, and almost drowns in the water to follow Jesus. So in a way, maybe the boat is Jesus too. For the part that says 'never thought i'd see the day' I think it's about the Second Coming of Christ, and how we don't know it's coming (even though people have theories of it the 'big boat' coming there way). And the mermaid is apparently Mary Magdalene, and how she was a prositute. And she's on the boat with Jesus and his twelve disciples. And even though the lyrics suggest that they had some type of certain 'relations' with Mary Magdalene, it refers to when Jesus cast out the demons from her. The part flippin' copies at Kinko's is about how people don't have any belief in the 'boat' and they miss out on how important it is about being a Christian (this is compared to the flippy-floppies, the swim trunks, the flippin' burgers). Though, I think the Santana Champ and the burger is Jesus Christ's body (the burger) and blood (Santana Champ). The dolphin repersents the same thing in a way. 'But this ain't Sea World, this is real as it gets' is when people say they go to church, just to say the go to church. This is not Sea World. The dolphin is the holy spirit, it's not fake, it's 'real as it gets'. The part about taking the picture about the boat is when people are impressed with the person's faith in God, thus making people follow and doing the same thing. Fuck land, I'm on a boat, motherfucker (this is being compared to taking the 'good road' or the 'bad road'. The 'good road' is to heaven, with Jesus. The 'bad road' is to hell. The land is the bad road, take the boat to go to heaven) Fuck trees, I climb buoys, motherfucker (same thing with being on land or the boat) I'm on the deck with my boys, motherfucker (Jesus and his 'boys' are on the boat) This boat engine make noise, motherfucker (the Holy Ghost is strong) I'm the king of the world On a boat like Leo If you're on the shore Then you're sure not me-oh (same thing. how great it feels to be Christian, compares to not believing in the one and only God) That's all I can say as of now, but I'm probably going to play this for Church. How great it is to believe in God! :)

Also, T-Pain freely admits he's a Muslim. So, two Jewish guys and a Muslim made a song about how great Christianity is? I doubt it. Also, I've never seen gospel that swears so much or talks about f-ing mermaids.

Ahahaha, its clearly a joke guys...apparently sarcam doesnt work too well on the internet...

U. R. CRAZY. and ur obviously not a christian and if u r than u need help cuz u have a totally perverted thinking strategy. this song is the farthest thing from trying to 'spread the gospel' ive ever heard seen or read. y wud three guys, two jews and a muslim write a song about christianity? u need to get ur mind strait cuz ur the saddest excuse for a christian ive ever heard. F U.

Did "Nice Boat" come to mind for anyone else, or was that just me?

This song will probably be stuck in my head for the next few weeks...

1 Reply Log in to reply

Nope, you're not the only one ;) I was thinking of "Nice Boat" first time I heard this too.

doesn't anyone realize how fucking sexy andy samberg is in this video??

holy shit i would do everything to him!!!

This song is about them being on a boat. (featuring T-Pain) Also, they are also trying to make it seem that they're on some ubr dubr cool boat. But really, It's a rental. =^..^= Great song, awsome flow.

This is the most important and culturally relevant song of the 21st century. Look at them with their flippy-floppies, climbing buoys, and molesting mermaids; they clearly are on a boat!

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Crying Myself to Sleep on the Biggest Cruise Ship Ever

Seven agonizing nights aboard the Icon of the Seas

photo of Icon of the Seas, taken on a long railed path approaching the stern of the ship, with people walking along dock

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MY FIRST GLIMPSE of Royal Caribbean’s Icon of the Seas, from the window of an approaching Miami cab, brings on a feeling of vertigo, nausea, amazement, and distress. I shut my eyes in defense, as my brain tells my optical nerve to try again.

The ship makes no sense, vertically or horizontally. It makes no sense on sea, or on land, or in outer space. It looks like a hodgepodge of domes and minarets, tubes and canopies, like Istanbul had it been designed by idiots. Vibrant, oversignifying colors are stacked upon other such colors, decks perched over still more decks; the only comfort is a row of lifeboats ringing its perimeter. There is no imposed order, no cogent thought, and, for those who do not harbor a totalitarian sense of gigantomania, no visual mercy. This is the biggest cruise ship ever built, and I have been tasked with witnessing its inaugural voyage.

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“Author embarks on their first cruise-ship voyage” has been a staple of American essay writing for almost three decades, beginning with David Foster Wallace’s “A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again,” which was first published in 1996 under the title “Shipping Out.” Since then, many admirable writers have widened and diversified the genre. Usually the essayist commissioned to take to the sea is in their first or second flush of youth and is ready to sharpen their wit against the hull of the offending vessel. I am 51, old and tired, having seen much of the world as a former travel journalist, and mostly what I do in both life and prose is shrug while muttering to my imaginary dachshund, “This too shall pass.” But the Icon of the Seas will not countenance a shrug. The Icon of the Seas is the Linda Loman of cruise ships, exclaiming that attention must be paid. And here I am in late January with my one piece of luggage and useless gray winter jacket and passport, zipping through the Port of Miami en route to the gangway that will separate me from the bulk of North America for more than seven days, ready to pay it in full.

The aforementioned gangway opens up directly onto a thriving mall (I will soon learn it is imperiously called the “Royal Promenade”), presently filled with yapping passengers beneath a ceiling studded with balloons ready to drop. Crew members from every part of the global South, as well as a few Balkans, are shepherding us along while pressing flutes of champagne into our hands. By a humming Starbucks, I drink as many of these as I can and prepare to find my cabin. I show my blue Suite Sky SeaPass Card (more on this later, much more) to a smiling woman from the Philippines, and she tells me to go “aft.” Which is where, now? As someone who has rarely sailed on a vessel grander than the Staten Island Ferry, I am confused. It turns out that the aft is the stern of the ship, or, for those of us who don’t know what a stern or an aft are, its ass. The nose of the ship, responsible for separating the waves before it, is also called a bow, and is marked for passengers as the FWD , or forward. The part of the contemporary sailing vessel where the malls are clustered is called the midship. I trust that you have enjoyed this nautical lesson.

I ascend via elevator to my suite on Deck 11. This is where I encounter my first terrible surprise. My suite windows and balcony do not face the ocean. Instead, they look out onto another shopping mall. This mall is the one that’s called Central Park, perhaps in homage to the Olmsted-designed bit of greenery in the middle of my hometown. Although on land I would be delighted to own a suite with Central Park views, here I am deeply depressed. To sail on a ship and not wake up to a vast blue carpet of ocean? Unthinkable.

Allow me a brief preamble here. The story you are reading was commissioned at a moment when most staterooms on the Icon were sold out. In fact, so enthralled by the prospect of this voyage were hard-core mariners that the ship’s entire inventory of guest rooms (the Icon can accommodate up to 7,600 passengers, but its inaugural journey was reduced to 5,000 or so for a less crowded experience) was almost immediately sold out. Hence, this publication was faced with the shocking prospect of paying nearly $19,000 to procure for this solitary passenger an entire suite—not including drinking expenses—all for the privilege of bringing you this article. But the suite in question doesn’t even have a view of the ocean! I sit down hard on my soft bed. Nineteen thousand dollars for this .

selfie photo of man with glasses, in background is swim-up bar with two women facing away

The viewless suite does have its pluses. In addition to all the Malin+Goetz products in my dual bathrooms, I am granted use of a dedicated Suite Deck lounge; access to Coastal Kitchen, a superior restaurant for Suites passengers; complimentary VOOM SM Surf & Stream (“the fastest Internet at Sea”) “for one device per person for the whole cruise duration”; a pair of bathrobes (one of which comes prestained with what looks like a large expectoration by the greenest lizard on Earth); and use of the Grove Suite Sun, an area on Decks 18 and 19 with food and deck chairs reserved exclusively for Suite passengers. I also get reserved seating for a performance of The Wizard of Oz , an ice-skating tribute to the periodic table, and similar provocations. The very color of my Suite Sky SeaPass Card, an oceanic blue as opposed to the cloying royal purple of the standard non-Suite passenger, will soon provoke envy and admiration. But as high as my status may be, there are those on board who have much higher status still, and I will soon learn to bow before them.

In preparation for sailing, I have “priced in,” as they say on Wall Street, the possibility that I may come from a somewhat different monde than many of the other cruisers. Without falling into stereotypes or preconceptions, I prepare myself for a friendly outspokenness on the part of my fellow seafarers that may not comply with modern DEI standards. I believe in meeting people halfway, and so the day before flying down to Miami, I visited what remains of Little Italy to purchase a popular T-shirt that reads DADDY’S LITTLE MEATBALL across the breast in the colors of the Italian flag. My wife recommended that I bring one of my many T-shirts featuring Snoopy and the Peanuts gang, as all Americans love the beagle and his friends. But I naively thought that my meatball T-shirt would be more suitable for conversation-starting. “Oh, and who is your ‘daddy’?” some might ask upon seeing it. “And how long have you been his ‘little meatball’?” And so on.

I put on my meatball T-shirt and head for one of the dining rooms to get a late lunch. In the elevator, I stick out my chest for all to read the funny legend upon it, but soon I realize that despite its burnished tricolor letters, no one takes note. More to the point, no one takes note of me. Despite my attempts at bridge building, the very sight of me (small, ethnic, without a cap bearing the name of a football team) elicits no reaction from other passengers. Most often, they will small-talk over me as if I don’t exist. This brings to mind the travails of David Foster Wallace , who felt so ostracized by his fellow passengers that he retreated to his cabin for much of his voyage. And Wallace was raised primarily in the Midwest and was a much larger, more American-looking meatball than I am. If he couldn’t talk to these people, how will I? What if I leave this ship without making any friends at all, despite my T-shirt? I am a social creature, and the prospect of seven days alone and apart is saddening. Wallace’s stateroom, at least, had a view of the ocean, a kind of cheap eternity.

Worse awaits me in the dining room. This is a large, multichandeliered room where I attended my safety training (I was shown how to put on a flotation vest; it is a very simple procedure). But the maître d’ politely refuses me entry in an English that seems to verge on another language. “I’m sorry, this is only for pendejos ,” he seems to be saying. I push back politely and he repeats himself. Pendejos ? Piranhas? There’s some kind of P-word to which I am not attuned. Meanwhile elderly passengers stream right past, powered by their limbs, walkers, and electric wheelchairs. “It is only pendejo dining today, sir.” “But I have a suite!” I say, already starting to catch on to the ship’s class system. He examines my card again. “But you are not a pendejo ,” he confirms. I am wearing a DADDY’S LITTLE MEATBALL T-shirt, I want to say to him. I am the essence of pendejo .

Eventually, I give up and head to the plebeian buffet on Deck 15, which has an aquatic-styled name I have now forgotten. Before gaining entry to this endless cornucopia of reheated food, one passes a washing station of many sinks and soap dispensers, and perhaps the most intriguing character on the entire ship. He is Mr. Washy Washy—or, according to his name tag, Nielbert of the Philippines—and he is dressed as a taco (on other occasions, I’ll see him dressed as a burger). Mr. Washy Washy performs an eponymous song in spirited, indeed flamboyant English: “Washy, washy, wash your hands, WASHY WASHY!” The dangers of norovirus and COVID on a cruise ship this size (a giant fellow ship was stricken with the former right after my voyage) makes Mr. Washy Washy an essential member of the crew. The problem lies with the food at the end of Washy’s rainbow. The buffet is groaning with what sounds like sophisticated dishes—marinated octopus, boiled egg with anchovy, chorizo, lobster claws—but every animal tastes tragically the same, as if there was only one creature available at the market, a “cruisipus” bred specifically for Royal Caribbean dining. The “vegetables” are no better. I pick up a tomato slice and look right through it. It tastes like cellophane. I sit alone, apart from the couples and parents with gaggles of children, as “We Are Family” echoes across the buffet space.

I may have failed to mention that all this time, the Icon of the Seas has not left port. As the fiery mango of the subtropical setting sun makes Miami’s condo skyline even more apocalyptic, the ship shoves off beneath a perfunctory display of fireworks. After the sun sets, in the far, dark distance, another circus-lit cruise ship ruptures the waves before us. We glance at it with pity, because it is by definition a smaller ship than our own. I am on Deck 15, outside the buffet and overlooking a bunch of pools (the Icon has seven of them), drinking a frilly drink that I got from one of the bars (the Icon has 15 of them), still too shy to speak to anyone, despite Sister Sledge’s assertion that all on the ship are somehow related.

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The ship’s passage away from Ron DeSantis’s Florida provides no frisson, no sense of developing “sea legs,” as the ship is too large to register the presence of waves unless a mighty wind adds significant chop. It is time for me to register the presence of the 5,000 passengers around me, even if they refuse to register mine. My fellow travelers have prepared for this trip with personally decorated T-shirts celebrating the importance of this voyage. The simplest ones say ICON INAUGURAL ’24 on the back and the family name on the front. Others attest to an over-the-top love of cruise ships: WARNING! MAY START TALKING ABOUT CRUISING . Still others are artisanally designed and celebrate lifetimes spent married while cruising (on ships, of course). A couple possibly in their 90s are wearing shirts whose backs feature a drawing of a cruise liner, two flamingos with ostensibly male and female characteristics, and the legend “ HUSBAND AND WIFE Cruising Partners FOR LIFE WE MAY NOT HAVE IT All Together BUT TOGETHER WE HAVE IT ALL .” (The words not in all caps have been written in cursive.) A real journalist or a more intrepid conversationalist would have gone up to the couple and asked them to explain the longevity of their marriage vis-à-vis their love of cruising. But instead I head to my mall suite, take off my meatball T-shirt, and allow the first tears of the cruise to roll down my cheeks slowly enough that I briefly fall asleep amid the moisture and salt.

photo of elaborate twisting multicolored waterslides with long stairwell to platform

I WAKE UP with a hangover. Oh God. Right. I cannot believe all of that happened last night. A name floats into my cobwebbed, nauseated brain: “Ayn Rand.” Jesus Christ.

I breakfast alone at the Coastal Kitchen. The coffee tastes fine and the eggs came out of a bird. The ship rolls slightly this morning; I can feel it in my thighs and my schlong, the parts of me that are most receptive to danger.

I had a dangerous conversation last night. After the sun set and we were at least 50 miles from shore (most modern cruise ships sail at about 23 miles an hour), I lay in bed softly hiccupping, my arms stretched out exactly like Jesus on the cross, the sound of the distant waves missing from my mall-facing suite, replaced by the hum of air-conditioning and children shouting in Spanish through the vents of my two bathrooms. I decided this passivity was unacceptable. As an immigrant, I feel duty-bound to complete the tasks I am paid for, which means reaching out and trying to understand my fellow cruisers. So I put on a normal James Perse T-shirt and headed for one of the bars on the Royal Promenade—the Schooner Bar, it was called, if memory serves correctly.

I sat at the bar for a martini and two Negronis. An old man with thick, hairy forearms drank next to me, very silent and Hemingwaylike, while a dreadlocked piano player tinkled out a series of excellent Elton John covers. To my right, a young white couple—he in floral shorts, she in a light, summery miniskirt with a fearsome diamond ring, neither of them in football regalia—chatted with an elderly couple. Do it , I commanded myself. Open your mouth. Speak! Speak without being spoken to. Initiate. A sentence fragment caught my ear from the young woman, “Cherry Hill.” This is a suburb of Philadelphia in New Jersey, and I had once been there for a reading at a synagogue. “Excuse me,” I said gently to her. “Did you just mention Cherry Hill? It’s a lovely place.”

As it turned out, the couple now lived in Fort Lauderdale (the number of Floridians on the cruise surprised me, given that Southern Florida is itself a kind of cruise ship, albeit one slowly sinking), but soon they were talking with me exclusively—the man potbellied, with a chin like a hard-boiled egg; the woman as svelte as if she were one of the many Ukrainian members of the crew—the elderly couple next to them forgotten. This felt as groundbreaking as the first time I dared to address an American in his native tongue, as a child on a bus in Queens (“On my foot you are standing, Mister”).

“I don’t want to talk politics,” the man said. “But they’re going to eighty-six Biden and put Michelle in.”

I considered the contradictions of his opening conversational gambit, but decided to play along. “People like Michelle,” I said, testing the waters. The husband sneered, but the wife charitably put forward that the former first lady was “more personable” than Joe Biden. “They’re gonna eighty-six Biden,” the husband repeated. “He can’t put a sentence together.”

After I mentioned that I was a writer—though I presented myself as a writer of teleplays instead of novels and articles such as this one—the husband told me his favorite writer was Ayn Rand. “Ayn Rand, she came here with nothing,” the husband said. “I work with a lot of Cubans, so …” I wondered if I should mention what I usually do to ingratiate myself with Republicans or libertarians: the fact that my finances improved after pass-through corporations were taxed differently under Donald Trump. Instead, I ordered another drink and the couple did the same, and I told him that Rand and I were born in the same city, St. Petersburg/Leningrad, and that my family also came here with nothing. Now the bonding and drinking began in earnest, and several more rounds appeared. Until it all fell apart.

Read: Gary Shteyngart on watching Russian television for five days straight

My new friend, whom I will refer to as Ayn, called out to a buddy of his across the bar, and suddenly a young couple, both covered in tattoos, appeared next to us. “He fucking punked me,” Ayn’s frat-boy-like friend called out as he put his arm around Ayn, while his sizable partner sizzled up to Mrs. Rand. Both of them had a look I have never seen on land—their eyes projecting absence and enmity in equal measure. In the ’90s, I drank with Russian soldiers fresh from Chechnya and wandered the streets of wartime Zagreb, but I have never seen such undisguised hostility toward both me and perhaps the universe at large. I was briefly introduced to this psychopathic pair, but neither of them wanted to have anything to do with me, and the tattooed woman would not even reveal her Christian name to me (she pretended to have the same first name as Mrs. Rand). To impress his tattooed friends, Ayn made fun of the fact that as a television writer, I’d worked on the series Succession (which, it would turn out, practically nobody on the ship had watched), instead of the far more palatable, in his eyes, zombie drama of last year. And then my new friends drifted away from me into an angry private conversation—“He punked me!”—as I ordered another drink for myself, scared of the dead-eyed arrivals whose gaze never registered in the dim wattage of the Schooner Bar, whose terrifying voices and hollow laughs grated like unoiled gears against the crooning of “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road.”

But today is a new day for me and my hangover. After breakfast, I explore the ship’s so-called neighborhoods . There’s the AquaDome, where one can find a food hall and an acrobatic sound-and-light aquatic show. Central Park has a premium steak house, a sushi joint, and a used Rolex that can be bought for $8,000 on land here proudly offered at $17,000. There’s the aforementioned Royal Promenade, where I had drunk with the Rands, and where a pair of dueling pianos duel well into the night. There’s Surfside, a kids’ neighborhood full of sugary garbage, which looks out onto the frothy trail that the behemoth leaves behind itself. Thrill Island refers to the collection of tubes that clutter the ass of the ship and offer passengers six waterslides and a surfing simulation. There’s the Hideaway, an adult zone that plays music from a vomit-slathered, Brit-filled Alicante nightclub circa 1996 and proves a big favorite with groups of young Latin American customers. And, most hurtfully, there’s the Suite Neighborhood.

2 photos: a ship's foamy white wake stretches to the horizon; a man at reailing with water and two large ships docked behind

I say hurtfully because as a Suite passenger I should be here, though my particular suite is far from the others. Whereas I am stuck amid the riffraff of Deck 11, this section is on the highborn Decks 16 and 17, and in passing, I peek into the spacious, tall-ceilinged staterooms from the hallway, dazzled by the glint of the waves and sun. For $75,000, one multifloor suite even comes with its own slide between floors, so that a family may enjoy this particular terror in private. There is a quiet splendor to the Suite Neighborhood. I see fewer stickers and signs and drawings than in my own neighborhood—for example, MIKE AND DIANA PROUDLY SERVED U.S. MARINE CORPS RETIRED . No one here needs to announce their branch of service or rank; they are simply Suites, and this is where they belong. Once again, despite my hard work and perseverance, I have been disallowed from the true American elite. Once again, I am “Not our class, dear.” I am reminded of watching The Love Boat on my grandmother’s Zenith, which either was given to her or we found in the trash (I get our many malfunctioning Zeniths confused) and whose tube got so hot, I would put little chunks of government cheese on a thin tissue atop it to give our welfare treat a pleasant, Reagan-era gooeyness. I could not understand English well enough then to catch the nuances of that seafaring program, but I knew that there were differences in the status of the passengers, and that sometimes those differences made them sad. Still, this ship, this plenty—every few steps, there are complimentary nachos or milkshakes or gyros on offer—was the fatty fuel of my childhood dreams. If only I had remained a child.

I walk around the outdoor decks looking for company. There is a middle-aged African American couple who always seem to be asleep in each other’s arms, probably exhausted from the late capitalism they regularly encounter on land. There is far more diversity on this ship than I expected. Many couples are a testament to Loving v. Virginia , and there is a large group of folks whose T-shirts read MELANIN AT SEA / IT’S THE MELANIN FOR ME . I smile when I see them, but then some young kids from the group makes Mr. Washy Washy do a cruel, caricatured “Burger Dance” (today he is in his burger getup), and I think, Well, so much for intersectionality .

At the infinity pool on Deck 17, I spot some elderly women who could be ethnic and from my part of the world, and so I jump in. I am proved correct! Many of them seem to be originally from Queens (“Corona was still great when it was all Italian”), though they are now spread across the tristate area. We bond over the way “Ron-kon-koma” sounds when announced in Penn Station.

“Everyone is here for a different reason,” one of them tells me. She and her ex-husband last sailed together four years ago to prove to themselves that their marriage was truly over. Her 15-year-old son lost his virginity to “an Irish young lady” while their ship was moored in Ravenna, Italy. The gaggle of old-timers competes to tell me their favorite cruising stories and tips. “A guy proposed in Central Park a couple of years ago”—many Royal Caribbean ships apparently have this ridiculous communal area—“and she ran away screaming!” “If you’re diamond-class, you get four drinks for free.” “A different kind of passenger sails out of Bayonne.” (This, perhaps, is racially coded.) “Sometimes, if you tip the bartender $5, your next drink will be free.”

“Everyone’s here for a different reason,” the woman whose marriage ended on a cruise tells me again. “Some people are here for bad reasons—the drinkers and the gamblers. Some people are here for medical reasons.” I have seen more than a few oxygen tanks and at least one woman clearly undergoing very serious chemo. Some T-shirts celebrate good news about a cancer diagnosis. This might be someone’s last cruise or week on Earth. For these women, who have spent months, if not years, at sea, cruising is a ritual as well as a life cycle: first love, last love, marriage, divorce, death.

Read: The last place on Earth any tourist should go

I have talked with these women for so long, tonight I promise myself that after a sad solitary dinner I will not try to seek out company at the bars in the mall or the adult-themed Hideaway. I have enough material to fulfill my duties to this publication. As I approach my orphaned suite, I run into the aggro young people who stole Mr. and Mrs. Rand away from me the night before. The tattooed apparitions pass me without a glance. She is singing something violent about “Stuttering Stanley” (a character in a popular horror movie, as I discover with my complimentary VOOM SM Surf & Stream Internet at Sea) and he’s loudly shouting about “all the money I’ve lost,” presumably at the casino in the bowels of the ship.

So these bent psychos out of a Cormac McCarthy novel are angrily inhabiting my deck. As I mewl myself to sleep, I envision a limited series for HBO or some other streamer, a kind of low-rent White Lotus , where several aggressive couples conspire to throw a shy intellectual interloper overboard. I type the scenario into my phone. As I fall asleep, I think of what the woman who recently divorced her husband and whose son became a man through the good offices of the Irish Republic told me while I was hoisting myself out of the infinity pool. “I’m here because I’m an explorer. I’m here because I’m trying something new.” What if I allowed myself to believe in her fantasy?

2 photos: 2 slices of pizza on plate; man in "Daddy's Little Meatball" shirt and shorts standing in outdoor dining area with ship's exhaust stacks in background

“YOU REALLY STARTED AT THE TOP,” they tell me. I’m at the Coastal Kitchen for my eggs and corned-beef hash, and the maître d’ has slotted me in between two couples. Fueled by coffee or perhaps intrigued by my relative youth, they strike up a conversation with me. As always, people are shocked that this is my first cruise. They contrast the Icon favorably with all the preceding liners in the Royal Caribbean fleet, usually commenting on the efficiency of the elevators that hurl us from deck to deck (as in many large corporate buildings, the elevators ask you to choose a floor and then direct you to one of many lifts). The couple to my right, from Palo Alto—he refers to his “porn mustache” and calls his wife “my cougar” because she is two years older—tell me they are “Pandemic Pinnacles.”

This is the day that my eyes will be opened. Pinnacles , it is explained to me over translucent cantaloupe, have sailed with Royal Caribbean for 700 ungodly nights. Pandemic Pinnacles took advantage of the two-for-one accrual rate of Pinnacle points during the pandemic, when sailing on a cruise ship was even more ill-advised, to catapult themselves into Pinnacle status.

Because of the importance of the inaugural voyage of the world’s largest cruise liner, more than 200 Pinnacles are on this ship, a startling number, it seems. Mrs. Palo Alto takes out a golden badge that I have seen affixed over many a breast, which reads CROWN AND ANCHOR SOCIETY along with her name. This is the coveted badge of the Pinnacle. “You should hear all the whining in Guest Services,” her husband tells me. Apparently, the Pinnacles who are not also Suites like us are all trying to use their status to get into Coastal Kitchen, our elite restaurant. Even a Pinnacle needs to be a Suite to access this level of corned-beef hash.

“We’re just baby Pinnacles,” Mrs. Palo Alto tells me, describing a kind of internal class struggle among the Pinnacle elite for ever higher status.

And now I understand what the maître d’ was saying to me on the first day of my cruise. He wasn’t saying “ pendejo .” He was saying “Pinnacle.” The dining room was for Pinnacles only, all those older people rolling in like the tide on their motorized scooters.

And now I understand something else: This whole thing is a cult. And like most cults, it can’t help but mirror the endless American fight for status. Like Keith Raniere’s NXIVM, where different-colored sashes were given out to connote rank among Raniere’s branded acolytes, this is an endless competition among Pinnacles, Suites, Diamond-Plusers, and facing-the-mall, no-balcony purple SeaPass Card peasants, not to mention the many distinctions within each category. The more you cruise, the higher your status. No wonder a section of the Royal Promenade is devoted to getting passengers to book their next cruise during the one they should be enjoying now. No wonder desperate Royal Caribbean offers (“FINAL HOURS”) crowded my email account weeks before I set sail. No wonder the ship’s jewelry store, the Royal Bling, is selling a $100,000 golden chalice that will entitle its owner to drink free on Royal Caribbean cruises for life. (One passenger was already gaming out whether her 28-year-old son was young enough to “just about earn out” on the chalice or if that ship had sailed.) No wonder this ship was sold out months before departure , and we had to pay $19,000 for a horrid suite away from the Suite Neighborhood. No wonder the most mythical hero of Royal Caribbean lore is someone named Super Mario, who has cruised so often, he now has his own working desk on many ships. This whole experience is part cult, part nautical pyramid scheme.

From the June 2014 issue: Ship of wonks

“The toilets are amazing,” the Palo Altos are telling me. “One flush and you’re done.” “They don’t understand how energy-efficient these ships are,” the husband of the other couple is telling me. “They got the LNG”—liquefied natural gas, which is supposed to make the Icon a boon to the environment (a concept widely disputed and sometimes ridiculed by environmentalists).

But I’m thinking along a different line of attack as I spear my last pallid slice of melon. For my streaming limited series, a Pinnacle would have to get killed by either an outright peasant or a Suite without an ocean view. I tell my breakfast companions my idea.

“Oh, for sure a Pinnacle would have to be killed,” Mr. Palo Alto, the Pandemic Pinnacle, says, touching his porn mustache thoughtfully as his wife nods.

“THAT’S RIGHT, IT’S your time, buddy!” Hubert, my fun-loving Panamanian cabin attendant, shouts as I step out of my suite in a robe. “Take it easy, buddy!”

I have come up with a new dressing strategy. Instead of trying to impress with my choice of T-shirts, I have decided to start wearing a robe, as one does at a resort property on land, with a proper spa and hammam. The response among my fellow cruisers has been ecstatic. “Look at you in the robe!” Mr. Rand cries out as we pass each other by the Thrill Island aqua park. “You’re living the cruise life! You know, you really drank me under the table that night.” I laugh as we part ways, but my soul cries out, Please spend more time with me, Mr. and Mrs. Rand; I so need the company .

In my white robe, I am a stately presence, a refugee from a better limited series, a one-man crossover episode. (Only Suites are granted these robes to begin with.) Today, I will try many of the activities these ships have on offer to provide their clientele with a sense of never-ceasing motion. Because I am already at Thrill Island, I decide to climb the staircase to what looks like a mast on an old-fashioned ship (terrified, because I am afraid of heights) to try a ride called “Storm Chasers,” which is part of the “Category 6” water park, named in honor of one of the storms that may someday do away with the Port of Miami entirely. Storm Chasers consists of falling from the “mast” down a long, twisting neon tube filled with water, like being the camera inside your own colonoscopy, as you hold on to the handles of a mat, hoping not to die. The tube then flops you down headfirst into a trough of water, a Royal Caribbean baptism. It both knocks my breath out and makes me sad.

In keeping with the aquatic theme, I attend a show at the AquaDome. To the sound of “Live and Let Die,” a man in a harness gyrates to and fro in the sultry air. I saw something very similar in the back rooms of the famed Berghain club in early-aughts Berlin. Soon another harnessed man is gyrating next to the first. Ja , I think to myself, I know how this ends. Now will come the fisting , natürlich . But the show soon devolves into the usual Marvel-film-grade nonsense, with too much light and sound signifying nichts . If any fisting is happening, it is probably in the Suite Neighborhood, inside a cabin marked with an upside-down pineapple, which I understand means a couple are ready to swing, and I will see none of it.

I go to the ice show, which is a kind of homage—if that’s possible—to the periodic table, done with the style and pomp and masterful precision that would please the likes of Kim Jong Un, if only he could afford Royal Caribbean talent. At one point, the dancers skate to the theme song of Succession . “See that!” I want to say to my fellow Suites—at “cultural” events, we have a special section reserved for us away from the commoners—“ Succession ! It’s even better than the zombie show! Open your minds!”

Finally, I visit a comedy revue in an enormous and too brightly lit version of an “intimate,” per Royal Caribbean literature, “Manhattan comedy club.” Many of the jokes are about the cruising life. “I’ve lived on ships for 20 years,” one of the middle-aged comedians says. “I can only see so many Filipino homosexuals dressed as a taco.” He pauses while the audience laughs. “I am so fired tonight,” he says. He segues into a Trump impression and then Biden falling asleep at the microphone, which gets the most laughs. “Anyone here from Fort Leonard Wood?” another comedian asks. Half the crowd seems to cheer. As I fall asleep that night, I realize another connection I have failed to make, and one that may explain some of the diversity on this vessel—many of its passengers have served in the military.

As a coddled passenger with a suite, I feel like I am starting to understand what it means to have a rank and be constantly reminded of it. There are many espresso makers , I think as I look across the expanse of my officer-grade quarters before closing my eyes, but this one is mine .

photo of sheltered sandy beach with palms, umbrellas, and chairs with two large docked cruise ships in background

A shocking sight greets me beyond the pools of Deck 17 as I saunter over to the Coastal Kitchen for my morning intake of slightly sour Americanos. A tiny city beneath a series of perfectly pressed green mountains. Land! We have docked for a brief respite in Basseterre, the capital of St. Kitts and Nevis. I wolf down my egg scramble to be one of the first passengers off the ship. Once past the gangway, I barely refrain from kissing the ground. I rush into the sights and sounds of this scruffy island city, sampling incredible conch curry and buckets of non-Starbucks coffee. How wonderful it is to be where God intended humans to be: on land. After all, I am neither a fish nor a mall rat. This is my natural environment. Basseterre may not be Havana, but there are signs of human ingenuity and desire everywhere you look. The Black Table Grill Has been Relocated to Soho Village, Market Street, Directly Behind of, Gary’s Fruits and Flower Shop. Signed. THE PORK MAN reads a sign stuck to a wall. Now, that is how you write a sign. A real sign, not the come-ons for overpriced Rolexes that blink across the screens of the Royal Promenade.

“Hey, tie your shoestring!” a pair of laughing ladies shout to me across the street.

“Thank you!” I shout back. Shoestring! “Thank you very much.”

A man in Independence Square Park comes by and asks if I want to play with his monkey. I haven’t heard that pickup line since the Penn Station of the 1980s. But then he pulls a real monkey out of a bag. The monkey is wearing a diaper and looks insane. Wonderful , I think, just wonderful! There is so much life here. I email my editor asking if I can remain on St. Kitts and allow the Icon to sail off into the horizon without me. I have even priced a flight home at less than $300, and I have enough material from the first four days on the cruise to write the entire story. “It would be funny …” my editor replies. “Now get on the boat.”

As I slink back to the ship after my brief jailbreak, the locals stand under umbrellas to gaze at and photograph the boat that towers over their small capital city. The limousines of the prime minister and his lackeys are parked beside the gangway. St. Kitts, I’ve been told, is one of the few islands that would allow a ship of this size to dock.

“We hear about all the waterslides,” a sweet young server in one of the cafés told me. “We wish we could go on the ship, but we have to work.”

“I want to stay on your island,” I replied. “I love it here.”

But she didn’t understand how I could possibly mean that.

“WASHY, WASHY, so you don’t get stinky, stinky!” kids are singing outside the AquaDome, while their adult minders look on in disapproval, perhaps worried that Mr. Washy Washy is grooming them into a life of gayness. I heard a southern couple skip the buffet entirely out of fear of Mr. Washy Washy.

Meanwhile, I have found a new watering hole for myself, the Swim & Tonic, the biggest swim-up bar on any cruise ship in the world. Drinking next to full-size, nearly naked Americans takes away one’s own self-consciousness. The men have curvaceous mom bodies. The women are equally un-shy about their sprawling physiques.

Today I’ve befriended a bald man with many children who tells me that all of the little trinkets that Royal Caribbean has left us in our staterooms and suites are worth a fortune on eBay. “Eighty dollars for the water bottle, 60 for the lanyard,” the man says. “This is a cult.”

“Tell me about it,” I say. There is, however, a clientele for whom this cruise makes perfect sense. For a large middle-class family (he works in “supply chains”), seven days in a lower-tier cabin—which starts at $1,800 a person—allow the parents to drop off their children in Surfside, where I imagine many young Filipina crew members will take care of them, while the parents are free to get drunk at a swim-up bar and maybe even get intimate in their cabin. Cruise ships have become, for a certain kind of hardworking family, a form of subsidized child care.

There is another man I would like to befriend at the Swim & Tonic, a tall, bald fellow who is perpetually inebriated and who wears a necklace studded with little rubber duckies in sunglasses, which, I am told, is a sort of secret handshake for cruise aficionados. Tomorrow, I will spend more time with him, but first the ship docks at St. Thomas, in the U.S. Virgin Islands. Charlotte Amalie, the capital, is more charming in name than in presence, but I still all but jump off the ship to score a juicy oxtail and plantains at the well-known Petite Pump Room, overlooking the harbor. From one of the highest points in the small city, the Icon of the Seas appears bigger than the surrounding hills.

I usually tan very evenly, but something about the discombobulation of life at sea makes me forget the regular application of sunscreen. As I walk down the streets of Charlotte Amalie in my fluorescent Icon of the Seas cap, an old Rastafarian stares me down. “Redneck,” he hisses.

“No,” I want to tell him, as I bring a hand up to my red neck, “that’s not who I am at all. On my island, Mannahatta, as Whitman would have it, I am an interesting person living within an engaging artistic milieu. I do not wish to use the Caribbean as a dumping ground for the cruise-ship industry. I love the work of Derek Walcott. You don’t understand. I am not a redneck. And if I am, they did this to me.” They meaning Royal Caribbean? Its passengers? The Rands?

“They did this to me!”

Back on the Icon, some older matrons are muttering about a run-in with passengers from the Celebrity cruise ship docked next to us, the Celebrity Apex. Although Celebrity Cruises is also owned by Royal Caribbean, I am made to understand that there is a deep fratricidal beef between passengers of the two lines. “We met a woman from the Apex,” one matron says, “and she says it was a small ship and there was nothing to do. Her face was as tight as a 19-year-old’s, she had so much surgery.” With those words, and beneath a cloudy sky, humidity shrouding our weathered faces and red necks, we set sail once again, hopefully in the direction of home.

photo from inside of spacious geodesic-style glass dome facing ocean, with stairwells and seating areas

THERE ARE BARELY 48 HOURS LEFT to the cruise, and the Icon of the Seas’ passengers are salty. They know how to work the elevators. They know the Washy Washy song by heart. They understand that the chicken gyro at “Feta Mediterranean,” in the AquaDome Market, is the least problematic form of chicken on the ship.

The passengers have shed their INAUGURAL CRUISE T-shirts and are now starting to evince political opinions. There are caps pledging to make America great again and T-shirts that celebrate words sometimes attributed to Patrick Henry: “The Constitution is not an instrument for the government to restrain the people; it is an instrument for the people to restrain the government.” With their preponderance of FAMILY FLAG FAITH FRIENDS FIREARMS T-shirts, the tables by the crepe station sometimes resemble the Capitol Rotunda on January 6. The Real Anthony Fauci , by Robert F. Kennedy Jr., appears to be a popular form of literature, especially among young men with very complicated versions of the American flag on their T-shirts. Other opinions blend the personal and the political. “Someone needs to kill Washy guy, right?” a well-dressed man in the elevator tells me, his gray eyes radiating nothing. “Just beat him to death. Am I right?” I overhear the male member of a young couple whisper, “There goes that freak” as I saunter by in my white spa robe, and I decide to retire it for the rest of the cruise.

I visit the Royal Bling to see up close the $100,000 golden chalice that entitles you to free drinks on Royal Caribbean forever. The pleasant Serbian saleslady explains that the chalice is actually gold-plated and covered in white zirconia instead of diamonds, as it would otherwise cost $1 million. “If you already have everything,” she explains, “this is one more thing you can get.”

I believe that anyone who works for Royal Caribbean should be entitled to immediate American citizenship. They already speak English better than most of the passengers and, per the Serbian lady’s sales pitch above, better understand what America is as well. Crew members like my Panamanian cabin attendant seem to work 24 hours a day. A waiter from New Delhi tells me that his contract is six months and three weeks long. After a cruise ends, he says, “in a few hours, we start again for the next cruise.” At the end of the half a year at sea, he is allowed a two-to-three-month stay at home with his family. As of 2019, the median income for crew members was somewhere in the vicinity of $20,000, according to a major business publication. Royal Caribbean would not share the current median salary for its crew members, but I am certain that it amounts to a fraction of the cost of a Royal Bling gold-plated, zirconia-studded chalice.

And because most of the Icon’s hyper-sanitized spaces are just a frittata away from being a Delta lounge, one forgets that there are actual sailors on this ship, charged with the herculean task of docking it in port. “Having driven 100,000-ton aircraft carriers throughout my career,” retired Admiral James G. Stavridis, the former NATO Supreme Allied Commander Europe, writes to me, “I’m not sure I would even know where to begin with trying to control a sea monster like this one nearly three times the size.” (I first met Stavridis while touring Army bases in Germany more than a decade ago.)

Today, I decide to head to the hot tub near Swim & Tonic, where some of the ship’s drunkest reprobates seem to gather (the other tubs are filled with families and couples). The talk here, like everywhere else on the ship, concerns football, a sport about which I know nothing. It is apparent that four teams have recently competed in some kind of finals for the year, and that two of them will now face off in the championship. Often when people on the Icon speak, I will try to repeat the last thing they said with a laugh or a nod of disbelief. “Yes, 20-yard line! Ha!” “Oh my God, of course, scrimmage.”

Soon we are joined in the hot tub by the late-middle-age drunk guy with the duck necklace. He is wearing a bucket hat with the legend HAWKEYES , which, I soon gather, is yet another football team. “All right, who turned me in?” Duck Necklace says as he plops into the tub beside us. “I get a call in the morning,” he says. “It’s security. Can you come down to the dining room by 10 a.m.? You need to stay away from the members of this religious family.” Apparently, the gregarious Duck Necklace had photobombed the wrong people. There are several families who present as evangelical Christians or practicing Muslims on the ship. One man, evidently, was not happy that Duck Necklace had made contact with his relatives. “It’s because of religious stuff; he was offended. I put my arm around 20 people a day.”

Everyone laughs. “They asked me three times if I needed medication,” he says of the security people who apparently interrogated him in full view of others having breakfast.

Another hot-tub denizen suggests that he should have asked for fentanyl. After a few more drinks, Duck Necklace begins to muse about what it would be like to fall off the ship. “I’m 62 and I’m ready to go,” he says. “I just don’t want a shark to eat me. I’m a huge God guy. I’m a Bible guy. There’s some Mayan theory squaring science stuff with religion. There is so much more to life on Earth.” We all nod into our Red Stripes.

“I never get off the ship when we dock,” he says. He tells us he lost $6,000 in the casino the other day. Later, I look him up, and it appears that on land, he’s a financial adviser in a crisp gray suit, probably a pillar of his North Chicago community.

photo of author smiling and holding soft-serve ice-cream cone with outdoor seating area in background

THE OCEAN IS TEEMING with fascinating life, but on the surface it has little to teach us. The waves come and go. The horizon remains ever far away.

I am constantly told by my fellow passengers that “everybody here has a story.” Yes, I want to reply, but everybody everywhere has a story. You, the reader of this essay, have a story, and yet you’re not inclined to jump on a cruise ship and, like Duck Necklace, tell your story to others at great pitch and volume. Maybe what they’re saying is that everybody on this ship wants to have a bigger, more coherent, more interesting story than the one they’ve been given. Maybe that’s why there’s so much signage on the doors around me attesting to marriages spent on the sea. Maybe that’s why the Royal Caribbean newsletter slipped under my door tells me that “this isn’t a vacation day spent—it’s bragging rights earned.” Maybe that’s why I’m so lonely.

Today is a big day for Icon passengers. Today the ship docks at Royal Caribbean’s own Bahamian island, the Perfect Day at CocoCay. (This appears to be the actual name of the island.) A comedian at the nightclub opined on what his perfect day at CocoCay would look like—receiving oral sex while learning that his ex-wife had been killed in a car crash (big laughter). But the reality of the island is far less humorous than that.

One of the ethnic tristate ladies in the infinity pool told me that she loved CocoCay because it had exactly the same things that could be found on the ship itself. This proves to be correct. It is like the Icon, but with sand. The same tired burgers, the same colorful tubes conveying children and water from Point A to B. The same swim-up bar at its Hideaway ($140 for admittance, no children allowed; Royal Caribbean must be printing money off its clientele). “There was almost a fight at The Wizard of Oz ,” I overhear an elderly woman tell her companion on a chaise lounge. Apparently one of the passengers began recording Royal Caribbean’s intellectual property and “three guys came after him.”

I walk down a pathway to the center of the island, where a sign reads DO NOT ENTER: YOU HAVE REACHED THE BOUNDARY OF ADVENTURE . I hear an animal scampering in the bushes. A Royal Caribbean worker in an enormous golf cart soon chases me down and takes me back to the Hideaway, where I run into Mrs. Rand in a bikini. She becomes livid telling me about an altercation she had the other day with a woman over a towel and a deck chair. We Suites have special towel privileges; we do not have to hand over our SeaPass Card to score a towel. But the Rands are not Suites. “People are so entitled here,” Mrs. Rand says. “It’s like the airport with all its classes.” “You see,” I want to say, “this is where your husband’s love of Ayn Rand runs into the cruelties and arbitrary indignities of unbridled capitalism.” Instead we make plans to meet for a final drink in the Schooner Bar tonight (the Rands will stand me up).

Back on the ship, I try to do laps, but the pool (the largest on any cruise ship, naturally) is fully trashed with the detritus of American life: candy wrappers, a slowly dissolving tortilla chip, napkins. I take an extra-long shower in my suite, then walk around the perimeter of the ship on a kind of exercise track, past all the alluring lifeboats in their yellow-and-white livery. Maybe there is a dystopian angle to the HBO series that I will surely end up pitching, one with shades of WALL-E or Snowpiercer . In a collapsed world, a Royal Caribbean–like cruise liner sails from port to port, collecting new shipmates and supplies in exchange for the precious energy it has on board. (The actual Icon features a new technology that converts passengers’ poop into enough energy to power the waterslides . In the series, this shitty technology would be greatly expanded.) A very young woman (18? 19?), smart and lonely, who has only known life on the ship, walks along the same track as I do now, contemplating jumping off into the surf left by its wake. I picture reusing Duck Necklace’s words in the opening shot of the pilot. The girl is walking around the track, her eyes on the horizon; maybe she’s highborn—a Suite—and we hear the voice-over: “I’m 19 and I’m ready to go. I just don’t want a shark to eat me.”

Before the cruise is finished, I talk to Mr. Washy Washy, or Nielbert of the Philippines. He is a sweet, gentle man, and I thank him for the earworm of a song he has given me and for keeping us safe from the dreaded norovirus. “This is very important to me, getting people to wash their hands,” he tells me in his burger getup. He has dreams, as an artist and a performer, but they are limited in scope. One day he wants to dress up as a piece of bacon for the morning shift.

THE MAIDEN VOYAGE OF THE TITANIC (the Icon of the Seas is five times as large as that doomed vessel) at least offered its passengers an exciting ending to their cruise, but when I wake up on the eighth day, all I see are the gray ghosts that populate Miami’s condo skyline. Throughout my voyage, my writer friends wrote in to commiserate with me. Sloane Crosley, who once covered a three-day spa mini-cruise for Vogue , tells me she felt “so very alone … I found it very untethering.” Gideon Lewis-Kraus writes in an Instagram comment: “When Gary is done I think it’s time this genre was taken out back and shot.” And he is right. To badly paraphrase Adorno: After this, no more cruise stories. It is unfair to put a thinking person on a cruise ship. Writers typically have difficult childhoods, and it is cruel to remind them of the inherent loneliness that drove them to writing in the first place. It is also unseemly to write about the kind of people who go on cruises. Our country does not provide the education and upbringing that allow its citizens an interior life. For the creative class to point fingers at the large, breasty gentlemen adrift in tortilla-chip-laden pools of water is to gather a sour harvest of low-hanging fruit.

A day or two before I got off the ship, I decided to make use of my balcony, which I had avoided because I thought the view would only depress me further. What I found shocked me. My suite did not look out on Central Park after all. This entire time, I had been living in the ship’s Disneyland, Surfside, the neighborhood full of screaming toddlers consuming milkshakes and candy. And as I leaned out over my balcony, I beheld a slight vista of the sea and surf that I thought I had been missing. It had been there all along. The sea was frothy and infinite and blue-green beneath the span of a seagull’s wing. And though it had been trod hard by the world’s largest cruise ship, it remained.

This article appears in the May 2024 print edition with the headline “A Meatball at Sea.” When you buy a book using a link on this page, we receive a commission. Thank you for supporting The Atlantic.

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Cambridge men's team rowers approach the finish line in the Oxford-Cambridge Boat Race, 30 March 2024.

Look at the Thames and know the time for metaphors is over: our politics is drowning in effluent

It took a sewage-plagued Boat Race to do it, but people can now see the appalling state of England’s water industry and waterways

F ire up a Chariots of Fire-style theme tune for the speech of the defeated Oxford captain in last Saturday’s Boat Race, beamed edifyingly around the world : “We had a few guys go down pretty badly with E coli ,” declared Lenny Jenkins (the university’s boat club itself says it can’t be that specific on precisely what caused the gut-rot). Having shared a few of the nauseating details, Jenkins concluded: “It would be a lot nicer if there wasn’t as much poo in the water.” Yup, a country that once painted a quarter of the world pink now regrettably advertises itself as mostly brown – encircled by its own effluent and pumping it furiously through its river veins just to be sure. As metaphors go, it is on the nose in all senses.

And so to Thames Water, steward of the river on which that internationally famous race is rowed – a firm that is £18bn in deliriously structured debt , has had to be extensively threatened to spend so much as 30p on infrastructure investment, spent years being used as a cash cow for shareholders, and has pumped human waste into the Greater London area of the river for almost 2,000 hours already this year. Despite this rapacious shareholder-facing culture, its current foreign investors have now apparently judged it to be “uninvestable”. Thames Water’s relatively new CEO, Chris Weston, must be struck by that feeling that plagued Tony Soprano. “It’s good to be in something from the ground floor,” the mobster judged. “I came too late for that – I know. But lately, I’m getting the feeling that I came in at the end. The best is over.”

This isn’t the line Chris Weston is going with in public, chirping to the Sunday Times: “I think the water industry, the characteristics it has, as a regulated monopoly, is very attractive to some types of investors.” He should probably tell that to the ones walking away, even as Thames has spent much of the past five years trying to get Ofwat to let it raise bills, most recently by up to 40% . Ofwat is of course the water industry’s “regulator” – if I could do double sarcastic airquotes, I would – and perhaps the only entity more full of shit than the rivers and seas it’s supposed to give one about. Civic-minded individuals such as the campaigner Feargal Sharkey or groups including Surfers Against Sewage have made all the running and worked long and tirelessly to push this issue into the public consciousness, and from there to outrage.

The part that Chris has correctly said out loud, however, is that back in 1989 the water industry wasn’t privatised in any true sense of the term – in fact, the Conservative government of the day held a sale of monopoly rights. State assets were parcelled out into private hands, and those who picked up these monopolies have spent decades doing grotesquely well for themselves at the expense of the captive nation that is stuck with them. They are in effect oligarchs, and even if they can’t boil their enemies in vats of scalding water like their Russian counterparts, they can certainly make them swim in seas of sewage. As Sun Tzu said: “If you wait by the river long enough, the turds of your enemies will float by. I say ‘long enough’ – 30 seconds should probably do it.”

You hear a lot about how the water industry was privatised for ideological reasons, but surely few ideologies could be more universally shared than the one that should see them renationalised. Namely: “I strongly believe that pumping raw sewage into our seas and rivers is both literally and qualitatively shit.” Come on – this really is the great unifier. In an atomised and polarised age, you can’t knock the sheer percentage of people who would – right now – be able to put all their other differences aside and unite behind the idea of that one. The public didn’t back water privatisation at the time it happened, and they sure as Shirley back it even less now. Plenty of Conservatives will gladly tell you that privatising utilities was always madness, for reasons ranging from economic and civic to national security, and Britain is far from the only place around the world where water privatisation has demonstrably not worked.

The public is also not stupid and knows very well that it’s going to be on the hook for the various firms’ massive debts, one way or another. If Thames is currently £18bn in debt and heading for collapse, the £15bn that is the estimated cost of renationalising the entire sector starts to look like long-term good value. Quite why Keir Starmer has rowed back on Labour’s previous pledge to renationalise the water industry is unclear. Presumably the best way to look like you’re responsible with money is to present yourself as the continuity candidate, letting calamitously run monopolies spray it everywhere then demand that consumers of that luxury product, water, foot the bill yet again.

That said, at the current rate of malfunction, Thames Water’s crisis will be upon us sooner than any general election. Yet where is the sense of urgency? Last year the government gave the water companies until 2050 to stop dumping sewage into seas and waterways. Incredible, really, when targets are this low-bar that hitherto the companies have still failed to clear them every time. Someone – anyone! – is going to have to think what to do about this wretched wallygarchy. Those in charge ought to be long past the point of looking busy and simply holding their noses.

Marina Hyde is a Guardian columnist

Thames Water
Water industry
The Boat Race

More on this story

One in three UK water workers verbally abused amid sewage fury, GMB finds

Thames Water parent tells creditors it has defaulted on debt

Regulators urged to act over water companies’ record sewage discharge

Thames Water owner bond slumps to record lows amid uncertainty over firm

Thames Water investors pull plug on £500m of funding amid standoff with regulator

England’s sewage crisis: how polluted is your local river and which regions are worst hit?

England’s ludicrous experiment in privatised water is coming to a messy end

Water companies in England face outrage over record sewage discharges

People in the UK: tell us about your local river and the environmental issues affecting it

‘Elevated’ risk of hackers targeting UK drinking water, says credit agency

Donald Trump Plans to Build New US Military 'Yachts'

D onald Trump is vowing to build up the U.S. naval fleet capacity to contest China's growth in the sector, detailing beautiful "yachts with weapons"—and an expert told Newsweek how that may play out.

In its 2023 China Military Power Report, the Pentagon said the People's Liberation Army Navy had about 370 warships . U.S. officials, who in 2021 correlated the Chinese naval growth to the addition of more major surface combatants, estimate the fleet will expand to 395 ships by 2025 and 435 ships by 2030.

Chinese President Xi Jinping and other officials gathered at the 20th National Congress of the Chinese Communist Party in October 2022 focused on intensifying and accelerating the People's Liberation Army's modernization goals, including deploying PLA forces on a "regular basis and in diversified ways," according to the Pentagon.

Conservative radio host Hugh Hewitt on Thursday asked Trump whether he would increase U.S. shipbuilding to compete with adversaries like China.

"Yeah, we were going to, we were on track to do that," Trump said. "We had unbelievable talent, unbelievable ships getting ready to be made. And then this guy [President Joe Biden ] came in, and he canceled it.

"First of all, it's jobs, okay? It's very important because it's jobs, great jobs. But you know, I rebuilt the entire military, and the one thing was, the ships are, you know, they take longer to do. We were set to do something great. We started the process. We gave, as you know, the destroyers, we gave Wisconsin a tremendous yard in Wisconsin."

In April 2020, part of the last year of Trump's first term, the Italian company Fincantieri's shipyard in Wisconsin announced it would begin constructing its first Constellation-class frigate, according to Defense News.

In May 2023, the company announced that the Department of Defense awarded its $526 million contract to build a fourth Constellation-class frigate for the U.S. Navy to include the frigate and nine option ships, with a cumulative value of $5.5 billion that includes post-delivery availability support and crew training.

Construction on the first frigate, the future USS Constellation, began in late August 2022 in Marinette, Wisconsin, and is scheduled to be delivered in 2026.

"[The frigates] look, I mean, they were beautiful," Trump said. "They look like, yeah, because I'm into beauty, to be honest with you. They look like yachts with lots of weapons on them, lots of weapons.

"But, and they've really come out good. But we were giving out a lot of ships, and then this guy came in, and he has no idea what he's doing. No idea whatsoever. China is on a shipbuilding message like nobody's seen before."

Rajan Menon, a nonresident scholar in the Carnegie Endowment for International Peace's Russia and Eurasia Program and director of the Grand Strategy Program at Defense Priorities, told Newsweek via email that Trump's vision of naval ships like frigates goes beyond aesthetics.

"Frigates may be 'beautiful' in Trump's eyes, but they are far more expensive to build than yachts—to which he likens them," Menon said. "More importantly, warships, as most recently demonstrated by Ukraine's repeated, successful attacks on Russia's Black Sea Fleet , provide big targets for the most advanced anti-ship missiles."

Menon said that the naval disparity between the U.S. and China can be tied to two separate questions, one of which is whether China in any foreseeable future can displace the worldwide maritime supremacy the U.S. has. He said the answer is "no."

But China's reliance on a variety of sophisticated weapons that substantially increase the cost "in blood and treasure" is already costing the U.S. and its warships in the seas off the eastern shore, he added.

"Moreover, its capabilities in this respect are almost certain to increase, in quantity and quality," he said.

Nuclear Submarine Pact Could Deter China From Taiwan Attack: US Official
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US Ambassador Explains Biden's Game-Changing Plan for Asia Allies

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A flotilla of Chinese naval vessels held a "live combat drill" in the East China Sea, state media reported early April 23, 2018, the latest show of force by Beijing's burgeoning navy in disputed waters that have riled neighbors. Donald Trump has promised to boost the U.S. naval fleet and build beautiful "yachts with weapons" if reelected.

31. I'm A Podcast The Yacht or Nyacht Podcast

JD, Steve, Hunter and David rate listener suggestions on the Yachtski Scale, including tracks by Marc Jordan, Bobby McFerrin and the Dukes of September.

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COMMENTS

Equestria Girls Season 2 'I'm on a Yacht' Spring Breakdown ...
👀Watch more Pony Life episodes: https://bit.ly/MorePonyLife ️ Subscribe to the My Little Pony Channel: http://bit.ly/SubtoMLP Welcome to the official home o...
I'm on a Yacht
International versions. I'm on a Yacht is a song featured in the My Little Pony Equestria Girls: Better Together animated short of the same name. The short was released on the Discovery Family GO! mobile app on May 5, 2019, and uploaded to the My Little Pony Official YouTube channel on May 24. It is performed by the Equestria Girls.
I'm on a Yacht
MLP: Equestria Girls 'Better Together' Season 2Song: I'm on a YachtWatch in 1080p!---Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/Letupita725HDTwitter: https://twitter...
The Lonely Island
Music video by The Lonely Island performing I'm On A Boat. (C) 2009 Universal Republic Records#TheLonelyIsland #ImOnABoat #Vevo
I'm on a Yacht
I'm on a Yacht Lyrics: Hey, hey! / Check our new ride / The wind is blowin', and we're feelin' real fly / Me and my girls are pumped up / (Equestria Girls: That's right!) / Gonna see some dolphins ...
I'm on a Boat
I'm on a Boat (Clean) on YouTube. " I'm on a Boat " is a single from The Lonely Island 's debut album Incredibad. It was also featured as a Saturday Night Live Digital Short. [1] The song features R&B singer T-Pain. The song, produced by Wyshmaster, is a parody of many rap video clichés, especially the music video for the Jay-Z song " Big ...
I'm on a Yacht
2:43. I'm on a Yacht is a song featured in the My Little Pony Equestria Girls: Better Together animated short of the same name. The short was released on the Discovery Family GO! mobile app on May 5, 2019, and uploaded to the My Little Pony Official YouTube channel on May 24, 2019. It is performed by the Equestria Girls.
I'm on a Yacht/International versions
I'm on a Yacht • Run to Break Free • Find the Magic • Let It Rain • Cheer You On. Season eight: School of Friendship • Friendship Always Wins • Your Heart Is in Two Places • Friendship U • We're Friendship Bound • A Kirin Tale • Just Can't Be a Dragon Here. Best Gift Ever:
The Lonely Island
I'm on a boat. Take a good, hard look at the motherfucking boat, yeah. [Verse 1: Andy, Akiva, & T-Pain] I'm on a boat, motherfucker, take a look at me. Straight floating on a boat on the deep blue ...
"I'm on a Yacht"
Equestria Girls. "I'm on a Yacht" - Thoughts? I know Equestria Girls has often received the short-end of the stick when it comes to music, but I personally feel like this latest song is an all-time low. They use an air horn in a pandering 'meme' way, and the only character who can really rap is Pinky Pie.
Equestria Girls: I'm On A Yacht Follow Up
And that was I'm on a Yacht, a generic pop song that doesn't quite live up to a lot of the sings we've had throughout this series and even the show. There's been generic songs before, but this one felt like it was purposefully trying to reach the younger demographic (irony, what's that?) ... I'm Penny Wrights and I'm gonna look up a ...
I'm on a boat Meaning
The phrase is typically proclaimed in a loud or obnoxious manner, similar to Samberg's delivery in the music video, and it is often meant to express how being on a boat is a special experience. The allusion can be both sincere and ironic, and it is frequently referenced with nostalgia. In some instances, I'm on a boat is used to anticipate ...
I'm On A Boat (ft. T-Pain)
http://www.itunes.com/thelonelyislandThe new single from The Lonely Island's debut album"INCREDIBAD"In stores now!The Lonely Island is Andy Samberg, Akiva Sc...
E14: I'm on a Yacht
3.2k. #1. May 25, 2019 (edited) Title: I'm on a Yacht. Air Date: May 24, 2019. Written By: John Jennings Boyd & Lisette Bustamante. Synopsis (YouTube Video Description): Complete with soaring dolphins, excessive lens flair, and a rap breakdown from Pinkie Pie, this music video will get you in the mood to cruise.
I'm on a Yacht MLP: Equestria Girls
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I'm on a Boat
I'm on a Boat is a music video parodying various rap clichés by the comedy group The Lonely Island featuring auto-tuned vocals by rapper T-Pain. Like other music videos by the group, it has inspired the creation of many parodies and spin-offs on YouTube. 🥇 See Who Won The KYM Poll For Meme Of The Month! 🥇 ...
Digital Short: I'm On A Boat
Behind the Sketch: Shrimp Tower. CLIP 03/15/24. On Set Look: Shrimp Tower. CLIP 03/13/24. State of the Union Cold Open. CLIP 03/09/24. Josh Brolin Monologue. CLIP 03/09/24. Weekend Update: Biden's ...
Superyacht Etiquette: How to Behave on a Yacht
Superyachts are expensive to build and expensive to maintain. According to the industry standard, owning a superyacht will cost 10% of its new-build price annually. For a $100 million yacht, that ...
I'm On A Boat
Provided to YouTube by Universal Music Group I'm On A Boat · The Lonely Island · T-Pain Incredibad ℗ 2009 Universal Republic Records Released on: 2008-01...
I'm on a Yacht
sorry, i forgot to include spike's picture😭😭
The Lonely Island
'Cause I'm sailing on a boat (sailing on a boat) I'm on a boat (I'm on a boat) I'm on a boat Take a good hard look at the motherfucking boat (boat, yeah) I'm on a boat motherfucker take a look at me Straight floatin' on a boat on the deep blue sea Busting five knots, wind whipping out my coat You can't stop me motherfucker cause I'm on a boat
Crying Myself to Sleep on the Biggest Cruise Ship Ever
The girl is walking around the track, her eyes on the horizon; maybe she's highborn—a Suite—and we hear the voice-over: "I'm 19 and I'm ready to go. I just don't want a shark to eat ...
MLP: Equestria Girls Season 2 : I'm on a Yacht
MLP MEETS EQUESTRIA GIRLS! My Little Pony Equestria Girls Minis Twilight Sparkle Human VS Pony. MLP My Little Pony Equestria Girls Surprise Cups! MLP Color Transform Rainbow Dash Kids Toys Mane 6. MLP My Little Pony Equestria Girls Minis Speed-Color! Twilight Sparkle, AppleJack MLP Coloring Art.
Look at the Thames and know the time for metaphors is over: our
It took a sewage-plagued Boat Race to do it, but people can now see the appalling state of England's water industry and waterways Tue 2 Apr 2024 08.38 EDT Last modified on Tue 2 Apr 2024 21.30 ...
The Lonely Island
Official Music Video for I'm On A Boat performed by The Lonely Island ft. T-Pain.Follow The Lonely Island:Instagram: http://www.instagram.com/thelonelyisland...
Donald Trump Plans to Build New US Military 'Yachts'
Donald Trump is vowing to build up the U.S. naval fleet capacity to contest China's growth in the sector, detailing beautiful "yachts with weapons"—and an expert told Newsweek how that may play ...
The Yacht or Nyacht Podcast: 31. I'm A Podcast on Apple Podcasts
I'm A Podcast The Yacht or Nyacht Podcast Music JD, Steve, Hunter and David rate listener suggestions on the Yachtski Scale, including tracks by Marc Jordan, Bobby McFerrin and the Dukes of September. More Episodes; 2023 JD, Steve, Hunter and David rate listener suggestions on the Yachtski Scale, including tracks by Marc Jordan, Bobby McFerrin ...
I'm On A Boat Lyrics
I'm On A Boat Lyrics. Song by Lonely Island Feat. T-Pain. Video By: Music4lyfe123.Thanks for all of the views!