Page 65 of Fire and Ice Cruise

“Showers are mandatory,” she says, making intense eye contact. “All guests must shower before entering the lagoon. Attendants will supervise.”

“Supervise?” Nettie repeats.

“For cleanliness.” The woman’s expression suggests this is non-negotiable. “This way.”

We follow signs to the locker rooms. Men to the left, women to the right. Wes and Ransom veer off, and we head in the opposite direction with no idea about what might be waiting for us.

The women’s locker room is all clean lines and blonde wood, smelling like chlorine and expensive soap. We claim lockers, start unpacking our swimsuits and towels, and that’s when the attendant appears.

She’s tall, blonde, and stern. She also happens to be built like a woman who doesn’t tolerate nonsense and never has. She’s holding a laminated sign that reads SHOWER INSTRUCTIONS in multiple languages and flashes it at us.

“You must shower before entering lagoon,” she announces to the room at large. “Remove all clothing. Use soap. Scrub thoroughly. Hair, body, everything. I will observe to ensure compliance.”

The room goes silent.

Bess turns to me, her face the color of Icelandic snow. “Did she say…”

“Remove all clothing,” I confirm.

Bess leans in. “In front of…”

“Everyone,” Nettie finishes, staring at the communal shower area visible through an archway. Multiple shower heads. Open space. Zero privacy. Currently occupied by several European women who are completely naked and completely unbothered.

“Oh, I can’t do this,” Bess whispers.

“You have to,” the attendant says, because apparently she has very good hearing. “It’s mandatory and a non-negotiable.”

“But…”

“No exceptions.” The woman’s expression could freeze the lagoon solid—and I’m guessing it might have a time or two. “Shower now. Thoroughly!”

I take a deep breath. “All right. I’m forty-nine years old. I’ve given birth. I can handle a little public nudity.”

This is a lie. I cannot handle public nudity.

But I also can’t handle being the American tourist who causes an international incident over shower protocol, so I start stripping down with the grim determination of a woman preparing for battle. A very naked battle.

Have I mentioned that both my bottom and my legs look like wrinkled, dimpled piles of flesh? It’s off-putting to even me, and I happen to own this body.

Bess and Nettie follow suit, with all three of us trying very hard not to look at each other or anyone else. Other women move around us with casual European comfort, chatting away while completely in the buff, and I focus on counting ceiling tiles because that’s apparently where I am in life. Trust me, it’s better than counting boobs.

We shuffle toward the showers in a small mob made of flesh, passing throngs of nude women of every shape and size who are chatting away as though they’re at a coffee shop instead of completely naked in a public space.

A woman approximately my age is having a full conversation in German while soaping her elbows. Two younger women are laughing about something while shampooing their hair. An elderly woman is scrubbing her feet with the casual confidence of a woman who stopped caring about public nudity sometime during the Nixon administration.

Nettie leans close. “Everyone here looks so comfortable.”

“That’s because they’re Europeans,” Bess mutters, as though that explains everything.

“I need to move to Europe,” Nettie declares. “I could get used to this.”

“You would.”

We spot three available shower heads in a row and claim them like prime beachfront property. The attendant watches like a prison guard with a personal vendetta against dirt. I turn on the water, it’s blessedly hot, and start scrubbing away.

Nettie’s soap slips out of her hand and onto the floor between us, and she offers me a pleading look.

“Don’t think about it,” I say, soaping my arms with unnecessary vigor.