Anchors Aweigh

‘Last night, I ate a whole bag of Ruffles!’ yells a large lady from the back of the Cole Porter Lounge, the gaudy Las Vegas-style cabaret aboard the cruise ship Elation. “And a family-sized Stouffer’s macaroni and cheese!”

“Ohhh!” goes the empathetic audience.

Richard Simmons, unmistakable against the stage’s gold lame backdrop in his skimpy striped shorts, glittery tank top and Little Orphan Annie hair, spurs them on.

“Family sized! How many in your family?” he asks, his famously nasal trill blaring from every speaker. “Just you and your cat? Boy, that’s a hungry cat!”

Huge group howl.

‘Did you have the philosophy that ‘Oh, I’m going on a cruise, comma’ “--a dimpled smirk and fluttered eyelash pay off with a roaring wave of laughter--”so let me eat my 10 favorite things before I go?”

“I ate what I usually have,” the lady answers. “I binged normal.” For seven days, as the Elation sails from San Pedro to Puerto Vallarta, Mazatlan, Cabo San Lucas and back, a Titanic love-hate relationship with food will play out among the 350 or so passengers most vulnerable to its allure. Unlike the rest of the 2,000 aboard who can freely enjoy this ship of plenty, these faithful members of the Simmons tribe--mostly women, mostly white and almost unanimously overweight, many to oceanic proportions--have joined their hero for a semi-annual rite known as the Cruise to Lose. They will work out together, dine together, laugh and cry together. They will try to shave off a few pounds and this time--by God and with Simmons’ help--keep them off.

“Every day, you’ll find a little mint on your pillow,” Simmons warns. “It says, ‘Eat me. I’m chocolate. I’m your friend.’ You are to bring those mints to me.” A cruise ship is a food addict’s dream/nightmare--a nonstop movable feast of multi-course meals with “international entrees” and “masterpiece” desserts plus, for in-between snack-sneakers, morning and late-night buffets, a 24-hour pizza parlor and room service. All at no extra charge. And there is no escape. But mints notwithstanding, Simmons does not police anyone’s diet. “This is real life,” he declares. “Every day we are faced with food. Every day we’re faced with buffets.” Against this unrelenting temptation the women clutch their pistachio-green Cruise to Lose workbooks (“This week,” it promises on the first page, “you will become a butterfly!”), part of a defense arsenal that also includes a water bottle, exercise tension cord and “Project Me” affirmations card (“I will not blame anyone for my eating. I hold the fork.”). Perhaps most important, Simmons says, is the Cruise to Lose address book. “Bond with people,” he urges. “A lot of you don’t have support at home. We have it now!” His voice screeches to a crescendo. “We can make this commitment to do this! We can! We absolutely can!”

Heavy or not, they are on their feet and cheering.

*

The Beverly Hills-based Simmons organization has arranged for me to dine all week with an elite corps of seven Simmons fans. Michelle Crauthamel, a secretary from Cleveland, is on her eighth cruise. Donna Pace, a travel agency clerk from Easton, Pa., is on her fifth, her husband Donnie (he thin, she not as) having joined her on all but one. It’s like sitting in on a family reunion, this chatter sprinkled with tales of previous cruises (Caribbean, Gulf of Mexico, etc.) as well as of the Simmons infomercial, QVC and video guest-spots they have done (for zero pay) and conventions and “aerobics concerts” they have attended. All wear souvenir Cruise to Lose T-shirts. Michelle and her friend, Mary Simmons (no relation, fifth cruise), also sport buttons they have made out of photos taken during past cruises.

The only virgin-cruiser, Melissa Christner, a customer service rep from Indianapolis, is no stranger. She fills a table space once occupied by her mother; Ruby passed away last year on the way to what would have been her fourth cruise and Melissa’s first. Now, Melissa says, “I came here to be with Momma’s friends.” They have paid a premium of $400 to $500 over the regular Carnival fare, boosting the minimum cost to about $1,300 (inside cabin) plus air fare to Los Angeles and hotels. Quite a chunk for teachers, store clerks and office workers. Back in Ohio, Mary works an 80-hour week as a school librarian and grocery cashier and gets no paid vacation. “This is the only time when I leave town and go away,” she says. “It’s that important in my life.”

For years they have worked out at home to Simmons videos, lived by his Deal-A-Meal portion control system, but only Mary unequivocally states that she is losing weight--150 pounds total--and whips out an unflattering “before” snapshot as evidence. She repeats the Simmons line that a loss of four to five pounds during the cruise is doable, and 14-pound drops are not unheard of. Donna claims that if not for Simmons, her health would have deteriorated to the point where “I wouldn’t be around today,” to which the others, also believing this true of themselves, solemnly nod. My table mates are far from the heaviest on the cruise. Still, Donna is “trying to start again” after putting on 50 pounds. Colleen Geiger (seventh cruise), a steady loser for quite some time, is now “in my downturn,” and Jan Mann, a teacher from Moses Lake, Wash. (fourth cruise), also “went off the program.”

“Meals,” as the Carnival brochure promises, “are an event.” Waiters present each guest with a two-page menu, done in an elegant typographic style, the size and heft of a carving board. Moments later, the agonizing “What are you having?” and “Ooh, that sounds good!” commence. Observing Simmons’ recommended 1,600-calorie-a-day intake means ignoring this menu--where just a nod can bring up to five courses of such voluptuous fare as filet mignon, lobster tail, onion soup au gratin, tiramisu and baked Alaska--in favor of Simmons’ photocopied sheet suggesting, say, an austere grilled chicken breast, boiled cauliflower or a bowl of pasta marinara. This occasionally happens. More often, my table mates compromise by ordering Carnival’s “Nautica Spa” (relatively) low-cal choices or simply give in and tear into a giant slab of New York steak. By midweek, only Mary confidently asserts she’s shedding pounds. Jan worries about her lack of discipline. “I never eat desserts at home,” she says. “The only place I ever order dessert is on this cruise.” She frets that this might turn out to be the “cruise to gain.”

*

At 7:30 a.m., hundreds of foil-coated mints are gleefully lobbed on the elevated stage of the ship’s Mikado showroom. Simmons plucks an empty wrapper out of the pile. Someone has written “Oops” on it. “Who’s is this?” he demands. Laughter but no confession. I discover later that it belongs to my table mate Melissa.

After a morning stretch, it’s time for the word of the day.

“Today’s word is ‘Choice,’ ” Simmons begins as everyone dutifully scribbles his explication in their workbooks. “It was a choice for you to come on this ship. For some of you it was a very frightening choice. Some of you learned something as a child that I learned. That you can eat some of the cereal in the box while you were pouring it. Or you can simply open the box and add milk, sugar and serve.” Knowing laughter greets his non sequitur on the delectability of breakfast cereal. The crowd swoons anew each time Simmons’ train of thought veers to a luscious layer-by-layer description of a gourmet bonbon or an almost pornographic remark about “sucking the bone, pushing your tongue through the marrow” of a pork rib.

After lunch, everyone returns to the Mikado for a dose of aggressive air conditioning and Simmons at his most amped. “Come on! We got to boogie! We got to sweat! I’m not here just to look pretty! . . . Or am I?” Behind him, the 20 or so Cruise to Losers who have jockeyed for a coveted place under the theatrical lights onstage--my table mates among them--move in sync as he arm-waves and leg-lifts through Donna Summer, Gloria Gaynor and the Village People. Everyone else carves out scraps of space among the Tilt-A-Whirl maze of booths below and in the balcony. Simmons prances ecstatically to and fro through the haze of a belching smoke machine, smiling, the back of his hand occasionally slinking down his own cheek. It’s hardly a heavy-duty program. No crunching. No push-ups. The emphasis is on fun and movement. Still, it’s a motivational miracle. As “Boogie Fever” pounds out of the speakers, a room full of the chronically sedentary happily sways and kicks--except for the few truly morbid cases who sit in a booth and flop their arms up and down.

“This is just the way I am,” says Simmons. One-on-one, in his suite, stripped of the lights, the show tunes, the entourage of publicist and staff as well the fans clamoring for pictures and hugs, he is more subdued and, frankly, easier to take. He relates his story--gospel among his flock--about how as a teenager he became obese, then sickly and bulimic, and then obese again. “I just had to figure out that it wasn’t just a food thing,” he says. “You had to do the exercise.” In the early ‘80s, after a stint on the daytime soap “General Hospital,” came the talk/exercise “Richard Simmons Show,” followed by his Beverly Hills-based Slimmons workout studio. In the early ‘90s, he started these cruises, the last 15 with Carnival. “I built my career around my compulsions,” he says. “The minute I leave here, I just go home, wash my clothes and I’m out doing malls, wellness centers, all that stuff.”

Except for decently defined calves, Simmons’ 50-year-old physique is pretty squooshy. He admits that he comes by his curly front locks via implants. “I’m not jock-ish. I’m not trophy boy,” he says. Rather, his appeal distills to this: “I don’t judge people by the pound, although this society does. . . .

“What I do is extremely serious,” he adds, “and I’m hoping that one day there is an article that’s not just about the zany Richard Simmons but the depth there.”

True, late-night and radio talk-show hosts tend to see this man in short shorts as nothing more than a butt for their mean-spirited little jokes, but the devotion of his paying fans more than offsets these public humiliations. “He’s been there,” they explain with adoration bordering on the religious. “He cares,” and almost to a person, “he’s sincere.” Many spend their free time writing him letters, and Simmons flips through some thrust upon him on his way back to the suite. As we speak, more are slipped under the door. “It’s ‘call my daughter’; ‘I have five children, this is the first time I left home,’ ” he says. “The next letter is, ‘I put 50 pounds back on and my sister didn’t come with me because she was mad.’ Each is its own miniseries.” He also sorts through the day’s take of gifts: needlepoint portraits of him, hand-drawn photo albums, handmade stuffed animals. The givers’ emotional attachment seems intense. “Yes,” Simmons says, “it is.” As a testament to his sincerity, a tear forms in the corner of his eye and slides down his cheek.

*

“Can you tell me three things you like about yourself?” Simmons asks during a “Project Me” session in the Cole Porter Lounge. “How about the opposite?” the woman answers. “My weight and how I look.” She begins to cry.

“We all have things that need to be released,” Simmons says. Testimonials proceed in 12-step “Hi, my name is Karen/Hello, Karen,” fashion, describing alienation, loneliness, despair and a vicious cycle of eating to cure the depression, which begets more weight, causing deeper depression, eating, and so forth. A pallor of morbidity shrouds the proceedings. My table mate Melissa relates how her late mother, Ruby, never managed to shake much off her maximum weight of 350. “She was a diabetic. [She] had three strokes. She went legally blind. She was confined to a wheelchair.” As she speaks, volunteers cruise solemnly through the room carrying aloft boxes of tissues to stanch the audience’s flow of tears.

Then comes the oddly similar saga of Tephanie, who fell ill after earning a free cruise last year for her appearance with Simmons on “The Maury Povich Show.” Tephanie’s aunt steps up to recount a teary hospital scene. “Believe in God,” she told Teph, “believe in Richard and you’re going to live.” Teph, like Ruby, died prior to the cruise. The Stouffer’s lady offers the thought that “all the people who passed away are in heaven at their goal weight,” and breaks down. Simmons envelops her in a comforting hug.

“Since you’re so very, very honest with me,” he says, weeping. “I must be very, very honest with you. I almost didn’t come on this cruise.” Stunned silence. “When my father died, it was as if he went on a long cruise.” Now, his mother, Shirley Simmons, is ill and bedridden, unable to feed and bathe herself. “I said, ‘Mom, I have to go away for seven days. There are all these people that need me,’ ” he relates. “But I fear a knock on the door from the captain.” The room is still but for a gentle floop, a muffled sniffle, as a “tissue angel” ferries a Kleenex box to yet another raised hand. “There is so much mucous in the room,” Simmons says. “Maybe we could figure out a way to bottle it.” Everyone laughs. “OK, bathroom break,” he declares. “I love you all!”

*

“It’s time for a test. It’s day 5. can you go to senor frog’s today? All right, let’s talk about it now! Jell-O Shooters! Jell-O shooters!” The Mikado erupts in insane cheering. My table mates insist, as they have all week, that if I want to understand what the Cruise to Lose is all about then, “You must come to Senor Frog’s.”

Entering the cantina on Mazatlan’s touristy oceanside strip, a riot of color (mostly green), noise (mostly dance music and frenzied whooping and shouting) and the sight of the gyrating bodies of the Cruise to Lose contingent--festive in their newly acquired Senor Frog’s Drinking Team T-shirts and foam frog headgear--obliterates all vestiges of the balmy afternoon. Colleen, Mary, Jan and Michelle dance on their chairs while men in 3-foot-high hats cruise the room, dispensing the shots (lime or grape gelatin soaked in tequila) by pouring the colored blobs down customers’ throats and blowing sirens in their ears. Melissa, a leader in shooter consumption (this a separate tally from the margaritas), performs a White House intern number on a party balloon.

Simmons also downs shooters (he says three, others count more) and drives the action, dancing furiously on the small stage and leading the inevitable conga line that weaves through the tables. Amid all this alcohol and confusion, waiters hustle nachos that no one has ordered. Colleen negotiates the bill down, claiming she had assumed the second, third and fourth plates were free.

Back at sea, people are popping Advil along with the usual Dramamine. Simmons, always around at mealtime, disappears before the final course arrives.

*

On the final day, the ocean is heaving. “when you get on that scale and you lost some weight, say, ‘Thank you, Senor Frog’s, because we danced and sweated our buns off,’ ” Simmons says. With the ship pitching severely, the fancy digital scale shows plus-or-minus variance of more than 10 pounds. Simmons orders up a manual doctor’s scale from the infirmary. The Cruise to Losers step up, slide the metal pointers around and record the numbers in their workbooks. No one thinks to check this scale’s accuracy. When it is empty, I return the pointers to zero and the balance beam drops with a clunk; it’s way out of whack.

It’s also Halloween, so the Cruise to Lose send-off doubles as a costume party. Almost everyone dresses up as food. Three human M’s (as in M&M;’s) skitter around the Cole Porter Lounge. Because of a delivery snafu, Simmons’ normally flamboyant get-up misses the ship and he must content himself with a pair of pumpkin-print overalls. Giving his goodbye, his weeping goes into Tammy Faye overdrive. “Even though I don’t know you all, I love you very much,” he says. “I worry about you. I want you so bad to make it this time. I would give anything for you to reach your goal.”

Away from the motivational euphoria and tearful goodbyes, a clot of dissenters gathers around the bar to gripe. “The element of people--these groupies--that are here was quite a shock to us,” says first-time cruiser Angel Colasanti, a hairstylist from Lima, Ohio. “I kind of got the feeling that there were plants at each table, people who were there to encourage you to come again. Like the second night they said, ‘What do you think? Would you like to come back?’ ” Luckily, she says, she hooked up with a pair of gripers and the threesome (although I’m told there are two more) refer to themselves as the Black Sheep.

“Someone at dinner was asking, ‘How does he smile through all of this?’ ” adds Carol Line, a floral designer from Modesto. “Well, ka-chiiing. That’s how.” She’s amazed that so many return to this “Ship of Fools,” despite scant results. As far as working out goes, “We’re exercising in a room where there is no place to kick or walk,” she says. “So I’ve been going to the aerobics class and walking the track,” sleek, modern facilities which, by the way, Simmons rarely mentions.

“And come on,” Colasanti adds. “No one is dieting.”

The next morning, everyone packs for the long flights home. “I always say I’m not coming back,” Colleen says, but she knows she will. Even if they don’t watch their calories, they’ll save their money, and next year, Mary assures me, speaking for the entire group, “we’ll all cruise again.” Each leaves laden with clothes, souvenirs, tequila and jewelry from the mercados of Mexico, and, of course, every manner of Richard Simmons memento. Mary and Michelle have spent almost $200 apiece on photos of them with Simmons shot by the ship photographer, even though they took their own, too. These and their memories are all that’s left of Cruise to Lose XV. Quietly and unobserved, Richard Simmons has left the ship.