When one hears the words "five days and four nights at sea," the image is normally one of white sand beaches, masseurs, deck chairs and mai tais. Permit me to describe to you all, my faithful followers, how my first cruise differed from those idyllic scenes.

I and 45 of my closest friends (i.e. my colleagues) arrived in Tokyo in mid-January, bags packed for a stay aboard the USS Blue Ridge (aka "Blue Fridge"). For one whole week, we would sample the amenities of Navy life while providing our gracious hosts with invaluable expertise and guidance. The US Navy's Seventh Fleet would also, as both a service and a mission, transport us to the exotic Southern Ryukus island of Okinawa before steaming on her merry way throughout the Pacific.

There we stood, Day One, on the quay -- sea bags and backpacks in hand, shivering in the Japanese winter wind, staring up at the massive grey hull of the Fleet flag ship. The sailors funneled us on board and escorted us to our racks, which, in the case of most of the men, was just that -- a 6'x2'x2' nook with a reading lamp and a curtain marking the extent of personal space. However, we few, the limited commodity of females, were each ushered to our state rooms where we would live the high life in a comparatively large compartment to be shared with only one other person.

Permit me to explain my earlier allusion to the "Fridge" rather than the "Ridge." My friends, central heating is not an element to be found aboard our lovely ocean-going conveyance, and for a crowd of folks who call the 50th State home, cold is not a comfortable status. Imagine us all, aboard Blue Fridge, madly sipping hot coffee and snuggling early into our racks just to stay warm, venturing out on deck only for minutes at a time until our latitude was such that it was warmer outside than in the belly of the beast.

Once afloat, many of us being novices at this sea-faring thing, we crossed our fingers and/or popped Bonine to ward off even the slightest indication of queasiness that could signal the onset of sea sickness. I am, however, quite happy to report that I survived my week at sea -- the first time I have been on anything larger than the ferry across the English Channel -- without losing my lunch (or any other meal).

Really, besides the morgue-like chill, my only complaint about life aboard the illustrious Fridge was her conspicuous lack of a bar -- a pub, a liquor cabinet, a keg, a bottle of wine or so much as a hip flask of brandy -- as far as I could tell. For someone who spends about 10% of her day parked in front of a pint, this situation was tough to endure.

But endure I did, and even persevered, until the Fridge steamed into port in Okinawa and expulsed us from her bowels onto the quay where we gratefully basked in the nearly tropical sun. We bid farewell to our worthy transport and climbed aboard a much more mundane conveyance -- a bus -- to be whisked away to a luxury hotel in the heights above Naha. Praise God, said lodging had enough rooms for every one of us to claim one before we discovered the bar -- and proceeded to shut it down. Forty-five people without alcohol for a week can get ugly for a hesitant bartender, but all ended happily.

Morning arrived early for our hung-over, land-sick selves, but all safely and punctually met their flights to diverse places throughout the world. We would all of us be doomed to struggle to regain our land legs, to not refer to beds as racks, the commode as the head, nor to give directions using fore, aft, port and starboard. To once again refer to a hatch as a door, to a deck as a floor, to a galley as a kitchen, and a ladder as a staircase.

Yes, life aboard land can be tough, but I now have confirmation that I was wise beyond my years in not joining the US Navy.