Funny thing about getting off a cruise: Sometimes you feel like you’re still on board even when you’re on land. I disembarked the boat yesterday, but right now I have the sensation my apartment is the high seas. Stop the living room, I want to get off.

The wacky wooziness I feel, the sensation of going up and down, is a pretty good metaphor for the experience of being a lesbian on board one of these Caribbean cruises. We’re not quite on solid ground.

In my last column I fretted, because I’m such a gifted fretter, that my mother and I might be seated at dinner on the boat with a frothing homophobe. It turned out we were seated with an elderly Canadian Catholic priest, and a set of Midwestern grandparents with their preteen granddaughters.

Were they gay-friendly or gay-rabid? Appropriately for a cruise, I went fishing. I found out the priest, who liked to discuss sensitive topics, thinks highly of the current pope (bad sign), but is agreeable to the idea of women priests (good sign). I pushed forward, mentioning the remarkable fact that his home country is allowing same-sex marriage. In answer, he just stared at the table.

Maybe he didn’t hear me. Maybe he knew why I was fishing. Maybe he was praying for Canada. Maybe he had just seen a worm in his Caesar salad. Maybe he was gay. I never did find out his view of gayness, as his duties during Holy Week sometimes made him miss dinner with us, poor thing.

It was a different story with our other table mates. I knew they were Episcopalian, which, coupled with the fact that we all had the last name of Robinson, provided me with an entry. I asked how they felt about the selection of openly gay Gene Robinson as an Episcopal bishop, since the choice has some Episcopalians scurrying to the lifeboats.

They said they were fine with it. Then I came out. Now that I think back, I probably would’ve come out if they hadn’t been fine with it, too. I would’ve felt it my duty to make them see gayness up close and personal. I also realize now that one of the reasons I outed myself then was the grandchildren weren’t at the table that night. I’m sure I should scrutinize that, but this ocean-motion is getting to me – I think I just saw a manatee on my couch.

I wasn’t the only one testing the waters on board. A lesbian couple, also from Seattle, told me as we sat on the lido deck the final day that they were pleased with the trip. But Debbie, who is femme, and Tammarrian, who is butch, had their interesting moments. The most unpleasant for Tammarrian was the time she walked down a corridor, and two teenage boys cordially made way for her, but after she passed one of them blurted “dyke” with all the warmth of an ice sculpture at the midnight buffet.

The couple did enjoy their table mates and baffled them, apparently. The third night of the trip was formal night, and Tammarrian, not a fan of dresses, or at least not of wearing them, wore a suit. This caused some at the table to refer to Tammarrian as “him,” despite having used “her” the previous nights.

That sound you hear isn’t a dining room steward dropping 12 orders of lobster tails. It’s two cultures clashing.

My sense of myself took a hit on the last day when, having a ghastly hair day, I decided to don a baseball cap. One ship worker and a flight attendant called me “sir.” If this apartment weren’t already rocking, that might’ve done it.