It was 2004, aboard the Crystal Harmony, cruising on the way to  Acapulco.

 “OK, I’ll meet you for lunch at noon.” With that, Phyllis took off in a dead run, she was off to her next dance lesson.  That woman has more energy than I can muster up, playing tennis, and now off to a dance lesson.  

For those who have never had the experience of going on a cruise, every day at sea there are tons of scheduled events; ballroom dance lessons, lectures, painting classes,  even computer classes and Bingo. I’m usually not into doing any of them, except maybe a trivia challenge now and then, but on this cruise I decided to branch out, do some things besides just people watch. I’d signed up for a watercolor class, but it would not begin until two. What to do with that hour Phyllis was taking the lesson?  Well, maybe I’d just go watch her dance lesson.   Off I went to the large ballroom to slip into a seat and observe. Once there, I saw quite a group of men and women, all juggling to find space. I made a quick decision. What the heck, I’ll just go up there with the group, nobody will take that much notice of me. Though this was going to be difficult for me since I dance only once a year when cruising with my gal pal, I was feeling very rusty. 

One of the things which made Phyllis and I such great friends and traveling partners is a deep understanding of each other’s circumstances.  So, we would  go on a cruise once a year to recharge our caretaker batteries, and frankly to unleash our inner child, both of whom have a wicked sense of humor. On our last cruise one of the “dance hosts” ( who we nearly danced into an retirement) paid us the ultimate compliment, “You two could have fun in a broom closet”.  He’s right, we have no shortage of things to laugh about, and we are usually at the top of our list.  (Some day I’ll tell you about our day as assistant dolphin trainers...think Lucy and Ethel on the candy line.)

We gave our inner children the names Phyllis and Sybil after one night of slightly too much to drink and a hysterically funny monologue/rant I unleashed. She told me she had never heard that side of me thus was born my “Sybil” alter ego...I forget why she was Phyllis, though she did tack on a last name, Smirnoff, which speaks volumes about the night these characters were born.

Here we are on some cruise we have taken, it was the last night, so we pretty much had packed away our alter egos.

“Hi Sybil!”  It was Phyllis, waving both arms and smiling widely. So much for slipping in unnoticed. I meekly waved back.

Suddenly the gorgeous male half of the World Champion Ballroom dancers was speaking into a microphone, “Everybody grab their partner and give room for another couple on each side of you.”

Great, I see everyone had been paired up before I arrived, so there I am, standing alone, partnerless and no men standing without one. Oh well, I knew I would feel out of place here, so I turned to leave.

“Young lady.” The British voice pleaded. “You... Blondie.” said the voice over the microphone. 

I turned, to see who he was speaking to.  He was staring at me. Gulp. “Me?” I asked.

“Yes you,” he said in a sexy British accent.

Blushing, I said, “I’m sorry, I am in the wrong room.”  Oops, my face turned beet red.

“Oh, come on, join us. I’ll be your partner.” Mr. Ballroom Champ said.

“Yeah, come on Sybil.” My good old pal Phyllis can always be depended on to back me up. She was paired up with Mr. Has-been, the comedy part of the entertainment aboard, hired to perform nights in the main showroom.  A salt and pepper haired Italian stud somewhat reminiscent of Dean Martin and other great Italians popular in the sixties.  I’m sure his career was as an opening act in the Poconos in his day, but on this day he was on the downside of the career, still good looking, some singing ability and ladies just swooned when he was onstage in his tuxedo.  Not us of course.

“Oh, ok, but I have on flip flops, obviously not the greatest for dancing.” My voice trailed off into a whisper.

A great chorus started up, “Take them off, take them off.” How embarrassing. I took off my flip flops and now stood barefoot, singled out.

“Sybil is it?” The just two-inch taller, five-foot-four inch Englishman asked.

I smiled, “Sort of.”  How do I tell him I'm really not named Sybil?  Oh heck, "What a mess you have gotten me in Phyllis." I mutter under my breath as I pass her.

“Well, come over here by me...” he said with a smile, “...we’re learning the Samba today. It will be just one fast hour." 

Just the way he said Samba made me want to dance (against my better judgment) and that bit about the class being just a fast hour had me doubting, but nothing ventured, nothing gained. I slap-footed it up to the front of the class where he stood, smiling, waiting for me to join him.  I sure was glad I had worn more than a bikini today.

“Ps-s-s-ssssst.” I heard as I was walking by Mr. Has-been.

“What?” I stage whispered back.

He whispered back in his Italian stage whisper, “Samba is the MOST difficult of all the dances, you know.” His great big white smile was a billboard of his delight at imparting this knowledge to me.

“Yeah, I know.“ I glared at him as I passed him by. Mr. Ballroom Champ’s hand was outstretched to me, so I slid my hand into his, clamminess and all.

“Sorry.” I said, genuinely so.

“No problem.” Then he proceeded to give instructions over the loudspeaker.

“Ladies , you’ll learn first, it’s far more difficult for you.  Begin with arms at your side, feet together, just lift and bounce on your right foot, then take three steps forward, then three steps back, lightly bouncing. Ready... one, two, three...”

The sound of 25 women in high heels, tennis shoes, dance shoes, socks and bare feet stepping and bouncing in unison made me laugh. I tried to be light of foot, after all, in my younger days I had taken ballet and tap lessons, and had even done some singing and dancing on stage during my acting years. Amazing how ungraceful I had become.  The truth is that what I felt was nothing more than a pure lack of confidence. Usually dancing comes back to me after a few days, but this was a whole new arena, so I felt doubly insecure.

“Sybil, just relax, you’re doing fine. One, two and three...just follow me.” He gripped my hand and practically forced me into submission, one-two-three.   “Okay couples, try it together.” The canned music started.

Mr. World Champ and I had not missed a beat, so I looked around to find Phyllis, all the while bouncing and counting. I spotted her, conspicuous in her tennis clothing, but laughing and seemingly enjoying her one-two-three’s with Mr. Has-been. Good.

We had one-two-three’d our way forward, sideways and into open turns with our respective partners by the end of the hour, and I was positively sure I’d never remember any of it on a real dance floor later that night.

Did I care? Not really. I had to admit it was great fun, though Mr. World Champ was probably happy I was just a wee little thing, if you get my gist. I thanked him for his patience and told him I would be back for more lessons. After all, I’d just passed Samba 101 and we both had survived. He smiled and thanked me, probably for not injuring his feet. 

Have I ever gotten to Samba?  No, but I watch it on "Dancing with the Stars"...hardly recognizing it to be the same dance I learned though.  Whew! I would have had trouble explaining some of those moves to my husband.