Page 66 of Fire and Ice Cruise

“How can I not think about it?” Bess says. “We’re NAKED.”

“In ICELAND,” Nettie adds, and she sounds downright cheerful as she scoops up her soap and gets right back to the act of lathering up. Nettie scrubs away with a smile on her face.

The next thing I know she’s humming.

Then clapping.

Then.

“CONGA LINE!” she shouts from the top of her lungs as she skitters away from her shower in what looks like a potentially hip-shattering move.

“NETTIE NO,” Bess and I say in perfect unison.

“Come on! When in Iceland!” Nettie grabs for the nearest naked stranger’s shoulders.

The woman looks alarmed. The attendant looks homicidal. But before we can stop her, Nettie has at least six different women dancing, laughing, and most horrifically slipping as they attempt to parade around the tiny facility. NAKED.

The attendant calls for backup on her radio, and I take that as my cue. I lunge for Nettie and physically redirect her back under her shower head.

“We are not doing a naked conga line in Iceland,” I practically hiss as I steer her away from other able and willing bodies.

“Why not?” Nettie actually manages to look affronted by this.

“Because we’ll get deported,” Bess hisses.

“And because most women are much better at doing the conga when they’re wearing a bra,” I point out.

“She’s right,” Bess says. “The risk of knocking yourself out and breaking a hip goes down dramatically.”

She’s not kidding.

“Don’t drop the soap, ladies!” Nettie cackles, and both Bess and I groan. It’s as though Nettie has been training for this her whole life. Either this or prison.

“That joke is inappropriate in seventeen different ways,” Bess says, scrubbing harder.

“Only seventeen?” Nettie chuffs. “I was aiming for twenty.”

“Nettie.”

“Fine. Eighteen.”

The attendant circles us like a shark. “More soap. Don’t forget the hair.”

I soap my hair up there, down there, I soap everything. I scrub as though I’m preparing for surgery. Finally, FINALLY, the attendant nods with approval, and we’re released back to our lockers where we face the next challenge—putting on swimsuits while dripping wet.

This might prove to be more of a challenge than doing the conga on slippery tiles.

I grab my one-piece and start what amounts to a wrestling match. The fabric sticks to my damp skin, bunching and rolling and refusing to cooperate in the most hostile way possible. I’m hopping on one foot, trying to get my leg through when Bess lets a few loose expletives fly.

“Okay, note to self. Do not try to squeeze into a bathing suit while you’re sopping wet.” I pant, finally getting both legs in. “It’s like trying to stuff yourself into a sausage casing.”

“I think my casing is broken,” Nettie announces.

“That’s because it’s inside out,” Bess tells her.

Nettie growls down at the tangled roll of fabric bunched around her thighs. “That explains so much.”

By the time we finally get dressed, and I use that term loosely, you would think we just finished an intense aerobic workout. We’re just that exhausted. Our hair is wet, our dignity is definitely compromised, and somehow that makes us prime candidates for a geothermal soak.