It seems surreal, even preposterous, that three years ago today, Keith and I found ourselves in what we begrudgingly named “ship jail.” Confined to a cruise ship cabin no larger than a walk-in closet, with no opening windows, no Wi-Fi, and strict orders to never open the door, we lived through an unimaginable experience.
The reason for our confinement? A positive COVID-19 test on the day we boarded—a cruel twist after three prior tests had confirmed I was negative. We were completely asymptomatic, but that didn’t matter. Rules were rules. What followed was one of the most challenging yet strangely beautiful periods of my life, defined by boredom, love, resilience, and perspective.
The journey to quarantine
It all started with hope. After two years of lockdowns, catastrophic business losses, and relentless struggles in the tourism industry, we dared to dream of a getaway. We booked a 12-day Windstar cruise out of Saint Martin - an escape to sunshine and sea breezes, and perhaps a step toward normalcy.
By the time Christmas rolled around, travel was a maze of masks, tests, and paperwork. On Christmas Day, I felt a bit under the weather and spent the day resting, worried I might have caught COVID. But I had barely left the house and quickly recovered. On the 27th, I took one of those brain-scraping COVID-19 tests and tested negative. That result carried me onto the plane on December 28, and through two more tests: one at the airport and another onboard the ship.
Our cabin was a dream - one of Windstar’s newer balcony rooms in the expanded section of the ship. It was bright, breezy, and decked out with fresh flowers and two bottles of champagne. We unpacked, toasted to 12 days of bliss, and soaked in the tropical air. I was with Keith, my happy place, and everything felt perfect.
But just as quickly, it all fell apart. There was a knock at the door. Three crew members in full hazmat suits informed me my boarding test was inconclusive and escorted me for a retest. When the results came back, I was positive.
The move to 'Ship Jail'
Windstar had two ships docked in Saint Martin: the one we had boarded and a second, older vessel repurposed as a quarantine ship. Before I could process what was happening, Keith and I were marched through the ship like pariahs, surrounded by fogging machines and hazmat-clad crew.
We were separated, each sent to tiny, 200-square-foot cabins with no opening windows and just a porthole. I sobbed as I entered my new quarters, overwhelmed by the isolation, the silence, and the endless loop of Clifford the Big Red Dog on the TV. My phone couldn’t connect, my computer was useless, and I felt utterly alone.
Keith, still testing negative, was right next door. From the ship’s landline, he talked me through my despair. He told me to place my hand on the wall behind my bed, where his bed backed onto the same wall. He tapped on his side, reminding me I wasn’t truly alone. His calm, steady voice soothed me enough to fall asleep that first night.
The 'upgrade'
After two days of campaigning - phone calls to the ship’s head office and pleas to anyone who would listen - I convinced them to move us into a single cabin together. It wasn’t much larger than the first, just under 300 square feet, but it had a slightly bigger window. We spent 24/7 together so we knew it was a matter of time before Keith was also positive so it made sense. Plus the isolation and claustrophobia would be a disaster for me.
Being together made all the difference. The cabin was still stifling, the air recycled, a slightly larger window but still fixed and not able to be opened, but we had each other. Keith reminded me, over and over, that the only thing that mattered was being together. “We could be in a ditch,” he said, “and I’d still be happy, as long as I was with you.”
Boredom and the deck of hope
Days in “ship jail” dragged on. The highlight of each day was the gourmet meals delivered to our cabin. Every morning, a menu was slipped under the door, offering us the luxury of choice. We ate like kings, savouring each bite as a brief escape from the monotony.
We talked endlessly, about everything and nothing. We debated silly topics, reminisced about past travels, and planned our next big adventure - if we ever got out.
After five days trapped in our cabin, we were granted a precious 45 minutes of fresh air on deck. Those moments were blissful. The sun warmed our faces, the sea breeze filled our lungs, and for the first time in days, we felt human again.
On the deck, we spotted other people across the ship. Barriers separated us, but we could still call out to each and hear their story. We learned that some had been confined for nearly a month, stuck in 190-square-foot cabins after testing positive on previous sailings. Their resilience was staggering. They were still trapped due to the Omicron strain relentlessly giving a positive test result and had been informed they could not leave until two negative results. This just did not seem right. I started using my time in the cabin to call authorities, consulates, medical professionals and even the media.
We spent our precious 45 minutes of daily deck time wisely, making the most of our limited freedom. Keith would bring a laptop and focus on research, using the ship's internet which seemed to work outside of the room to gather insights and explore potential solutions to our situation. Meanwhile, I would connect to the elusive cell signal, using the opportunity to share our story with media outlets in Canada and the U.S. Radio, TV, and podcasts became platforms to highlight the challenges travellers faced during the pandemic. Keith teased me relentlessly, dubbing it my “quarantine press tour.”
Although we were anchored just off Saint Martin, the ship was technically in open water, not within the island’s jurisdiction. This created a murky legal situation with unclear rules that seemed to shift depending on the country involved. The uncertainty added another layer of complexity to an already surreal experience, making every moment of communication on deck feel like a vital lifeline to the outside world.
The Endless Waiting Game
On day seven, I finally tested negative, but, as predicted, Keith tested positive. The clock reset. We started the waiting game all over again, with no certainty about when - or if - we would ever be released. The knowledge that others had been on board almost a month was daunting to say the least.
Frustration mounted. I called government officials, the consulate, and anyone I thought could help. The local authorities in Saint Martin eventually confirmed we could disembark since we had been symptom-free for over ten days and since first testing positive, but convincing the cruise line took more time.
Finally, on the 12th day, we both tested negative on consecutive tests and were allowed to leave. Stepping off that ship felt like being released from prison.
Canada’s strict re-entry rules required a total of 14 days from the initial positive test, even with negative results and a doctor’s note. Stranded, we found ourselves in need of a place to stay.
That’s when the owner of a beautiful boutique hotel in Grand Case - Grand Case Beach Club took pity on us. Without hesitation or expectations, he welcomed us into his stunning property. The hotel sat on a pristine beach, and the warm ocean felt like pure bliss after our confinement. It was a sanctuary in every sense of the word, a place of healing and peace.
Grateful beyond words, I’ve since sent clients to this incredible hotel, and they’ve loved it as much as we did.
Once on dry land we discovered Saint Martin is a gem of the Caribbean, a single island uniquely shared by two nations - France and the Netherlands - each offering its own distinct charm. The warm, turquoise waters and pristine beaches invite relaxation, while the island's vibrant culture and welcoming locals make every visitor feel at home. From the French side’s gourmet dining and chic boutiques in Grand Case to the Dutch side’s lively nightlife and duty-free shopping in Philipsburg, there’s something for everyone. The blend of cultures, stunning landscapes, and laid-back vibe make Saint Martin well worth a visit
Perspective three years later
Reflecting on this experience, I am profoundly grateful. Grateful for Keith, whose love and humour kept me afloat. Grateful to Windstar, a company with no obligation to refund us but who did so anyway, while also ensuring we were cared for during quarantine. Their actions showed incredible integrity and compassion.
I’m grateful for life itself. The pandemic robbed so many of loved ones, livelihoods, and precious time. It contributed to the death of my mum, a loss that will forever weigh heavily on my heart. The ripple effects continue, with my then teenage children grappling with the social and emotional toll of those years and spotty final years of valuable education.
But despite it all, I remain hopeful. Every time I board a plane, step onto foreign soil, or immerse myself in another culture, I am reminded of the privilege of travel. Life is fragile, and the world is vast and beautiful. I’ll keep exploring, keep connecting, and keep sharing those stories - for as long as I can.
Keith and I often joke that if we could survive “ship jail,” we could survive anything. But there’s truth in that humour. We emerged stronger, rested, more appreciative of each other, and more determined to live fully. Because if the pandemic taught us anything, it’s this: life is too short not to embrace it with both hands.
This year my travel plans are South Africa in April - one of the most affordable and wonderful countries in the world, Uganda in May with Travel agents, Tanzania in August - recreating the wonderful trip I shared with Tracy Moore last year and a river cruise in Europe in July. I can’t wait for another year of travel and you are welcome to travel with us on our adventures.
We also are a TICO protected Travel Agency and will be happy to assist with any travel plans you may have. I often get busy with my media work but have two amazing agents based in Niagara ready to discuss your travel plans.
