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Bill and John Tossell go ashore for lunch in Costa Rica.

"Mind your head. Watch your step." So advised the neatly framed signs posted every few dozen metres on the third-floor wraparound deck of our cruise ship, the MS Zuiderdam. Each afternoon during a 10-day voyage I took last winter with my partner, John, and his father, Bill, I would read those warnings on my one-hour buffet-busting afternoon constitutional. And I couldn't help but wonder whether Bill, on his own daily walks, saw in them the same corny but comforting message I did.

It had been eight months since Jean, his wife of 62 years (and my mother-in-law for 28 of those) had died, and after a difficult year, those on-deck admonitions seemed more Deepak Chopra than Holland America. Mind your head. Watch your step. All they were missing, I thought, was "Guard your heart" – which, I had suspected, was what Bill had been doing when he shrugged off our initial suggestion of taking a winter trip to Buenos Aires, where John and I thought the three of us might share an apartment for a few winter weeks.

When my own father died several years ago, I remember being hesitant to travel anywhere new, because arriving at my destination only confirmed the fact that he was nowhere on Earth to be found. Bill, I figured, was perhaps afraid that going away would only add to the sense that Jean was no longer at his side.

But then he made an alternate proposal: He and Jean had taken a cruise to Alaska a few years back, and, after a lifetime of off-the-beaten-track travel, they liked the combination it had offered of a well-charted voyage into what for them were uncharted waters – scenery and excursions they'd never experienced, combined with an absence of things they didn't want: parasites seeking a Canadian host, B&Bs with lumpy beds and bad wallpaper, Turkish toilets.

Sounded good to us. And so we chose a cruise from Fort Lauderdale, Fla., to Panama (whose locks both Bill and John had always wanted to see) and back, via the tiny Bahamian island of Half Moon Cay, plus Aruba, Curacao and Costa Rica, where my niece was expecting a baby (due about a month before the Zuiderdam would be pulling into port).

Still, I think we all embarked on the idea, and the trip, not only with hearts guarded but with fingers crossed. On a practical level, how wise would it be for John and me to travel with a parent; and for Bill, a very independent man, to spend an entire vacation with us? And on an emotional level, how would any of us tread the line between missing Jean (no doubt more acutely than ever; 28 years after my dad's death, I think of him the most when I kick back and relax) and allowing ourselves to enjoy a getaway we needed more than ever?

I am here to report that after some of the choppiest months of our lives, our trip on the high seas was smooth sailing. A lot of that can be credited to two words: organized freedom, a concept the cruise industry has down to an art. Whether you're into glitz or quiet, self-improvement or self-destruction, cruise ships offer loads of options that Bill, John and I could opt into or out of, with or without the other two guys, and with pretty much no planning required. Take a fork in the road, and we'll see you back at the room for cocktails, or on aft deck nine when we hit the first Panama lock.

That no-planning approach works especially well when two generations are travelling together. A friend of ours took his parents to India once and was overwhelmed by the endless accommodating that his parents quite reasonably required. But even on a straightforward trip to, say, Vancouver or Paris (or Buenos Aires), the advance planning and on-the-ground co-ordination – involving hotels, transportation, directions, hiring tour guides and negotiating local customs – can be an onerous, pleasure-busting job (and one that tends to fall to the younger generation).

By contrast, the Zuiderdam was effectively a nanny state – with staterooms complete with North American electrical outlets, slip-stop shower handles, and no stairs.

The ship's all-encompassing flexibility started with the meals themselves.

An early riser, Bill was able to head to the dining room at 7 a.m. and be served a hot breakfast on bone china. Sometimes he sat alone with a copy of the abridged New York Times that was delivered to our rooms, or with a newssheet called The Canadian that arrived every couple of days with Olympic updates, Ottawa news briefs and delicious listings of how freezing it was in selected Canadian cities. One morning he took a table with strangers, at which he met an Iowa farmer whose stories fascinated Bill, a career crop scientist. Sometimes he headed off to breakfast with John.

Never with me. But while I'd lost the late-rising Jean as an ally in sleeping past 10 – we used to compete at the cottage to see which of us would get up the latest – on the Zuiderdam, it didn't matter that I was the lone layabout; I knew Bill was being taken care of.

And while I managed to make it to every last one of the glitter-covered, feather-boa-flaunting, Motown-heavy performances of the Zuiderdam Dancers in the Vegas-like Vista Theatre, I got the impression Bill found their costumes a bit skimpy and the whole thing a bit loud. He preferred sitting with the Adagio Strings, a quartet of perfectly postured, rather stern women who played in the clubby Explorers Lounge, where the only thing curvaceous were the banquettes and the only thing shiny /were/ the 18th-century Dutch oils.

In between breakfast and late-night distractions, we were able to mix and match the events that appealed to each of us: cooking demonstrations (so that's how you make edible bouquets) in the ship's culinary centre; lectures on the history of the West Indies and the engineering of the Panama Canal (the eggheads went to those without me); tai chi on deck with a blond, blue-eyed, strapping young man known simply as Lifestylist Bill. While none of us made use of the AA meetings, Catholic mass or the Texas Hold 'Em tournament, a couple of afternoons John and I did check out what the ship's daily program coyly described as a cocktail-hour gathering of "Friends of Dorothy," a.k.a. our fellow gay passengers.

And, of course, there were the ports. After the helluva year he'd had, Bill announced long before we left Canada that he would get off the ship only to see my Costa Rican kin. Otherwise, his chief priority, to use his word, would be "loafing," with an occasional pre-emptive nap should the breezes be just right.

So when we stopped in both Aruba and Curacao, John and I took the opportunity to climb high monuments, check out the spicy local food, and drink more alcoholic beverages than we might have imbibed with Bill present. In Costa Rica, we all headed out for lunch on a cliffside table overlooking the Caribbean, and 84-year-old Bill got to meet three-week old Kailani. That lunch was probably among the most bittersweet events on our trip. Bill and Jean had known Kai's mom, my niece Sasha, since Sasha herself was an infant, and we all knew Jean would have loved to be with us that day.

It certainly wasn't the only time her menfolk missed Jean. I almost started bawling like a baby when we first boarded the ship; it just didn't seem right that Jean wasn't checking into Bill's stateroom. I also missed her on a practical level whenever I succumbed to ordering a second dessert; she might have indulged along with me, unlike the two sugar oppositionists she called a husband and son. And the fact that the menu included steak every single night, no matter the half-dozen other entrees that came and went, would have given proud carnivore Jean, as it did me, much happiness.

Of course, however much I missed her, Jean's son and husband missed her even more. There were fresh flowers throughout the ship – orchids, lilies, roses – and John mentioned many times how much his mom would have loved that. Jean and Bill's home stereo almost always had either classical or thirties and forties music playing, and I'd bet my life that Bill often felt nostalgic listening to those Adagio Strings.

Bill and John together spent many hours in the top-deck Crow's Nest lounge, with its 180-degree view and grand piano on which passengers played their favourite tunes. In the journal John kept of the voyage, the entry for March 2, 11:40 a.m., reads: "Someone is playing Let Me Call You Sweetheart on the grand piano. I am finding this wonderful but hard to listen to, knowing Dad is just a few seats away and listening too, and wondering what he must be thinking."

On our final night, following a farewell walkabout with John and Bill, I was flipping through a book at the café in the wood-panelled Zuiderdam library when I came across this quote from German novelist Hans Kudszus: "Birth," he wrote, "is being issued with a return ticket." It was a timely reminder that all good things – whether a life well-lived or a simple father-son cruise taken by those left behind – really do come to an end.

The next morning, we sailed into the port from where our cruise had begun, and where all seemed as we'd left it: the forested coastline, the cloudless sky, the tender breeze. But I can report that not quite everything was as it had been 10 days earlier: The Zuiderdam's passengers now included three men, still missing their fearless female leader, but happier for having taken a getaway together while the sun shone, the skies were blue and the going was good.

Mind your head. Watch your step. Guard your heart. This Father's Day weekend, let me add: Seize the day.

Travelling with an older parent

Some airlines offer seniors' discounts – and discounts for those travelling with a senior. Check when you book.

Ensure prescriptions and other medications are picked up well before your departure date, and that carry-on luggage is adequately stocked with meds.

Even for fully-able seniors, consider booking a wheelchair or a more face-saving golf cart through your airport's website, and wheelchair-accessible hotel rooms or ship cabins – they often have roomier (although tub-free) bathrooms.

Bring along healthy snacks for the plane and any pre- and post-cruise hotel rooms, which often stock only junk food.

Our interior rooms on the ship were blessedly quiet – and very dark. Next time, I'd pack nightlights.

It's costly to make long-distance calls from ship-to-grandkid and online access fees can be pricey, so wait for land: Ports often provide phone banks, and $5 international phone cards, right at the dock. Find the local library or Internet cafés for online access.

As when travelling with your spouse, be sure to pack extra-dark sunglasses. That way you can people-watch while pretending to listen.

For anyone travelling by ship: Put aside a disembarkation outfit when packing up luggage (for porter pick-up in the wee hours) on your final evening. A nightie doesn't make the best impression at U.S. customs.

V.D.





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