Prisoners of the plague cruise: British couple’s hellish coronavirus diaries

The four-week, £7,000-plus cruise in the Far East was intended to be the holiday of a lifetime to celebrate their forthcoming 20th wedding anniversary in July.

But after boarding their ship the Diamond Princess in Singapore on January 6, John and Elaine Spencer – along with 2,700 other passengers – were plunged into the coronavirus crisis, at the heart of the largest concentration of cases outside China.

For more than two weeks, the couple from Sheerness, Kent, were confined to their windowless cabin for nearly 24 hours a day as the number of cases on board rose.

The Spencers and their fellow Britons finally prepared to disembark on Friday for an evacuation flight to the UK, where they face another 14 days in quarantine at the Arrowe Park Hospital on the Wirral, Merseyside.

Here, businesswoman Elaine, 54, shares her diary of the couple’s experience aboard ‘the Plague Ship’.

Elaine Spencer pictured with her husband John on board the Diamond Princess. The four-week, £7,000-plus cruise in the Far East was intended to be the holiday of a lifetime to celebrate their forthcoming 20th wedding anniversary in July

Monday Feb 3

John and I have been on the Diamond Princess for nearly four weeks when a letter is delivered to our cabin saying a former passenger had tested positive for coronavirus. (We knew about the outbreak from the internet.)

We’re told that there may be a delay in disembarking at our next stop, Tokyo, where our cruise is due to end.

Of course, we’re worried. What are the chances of the virus having spread among passengers? We should have realised something was wrong when passengers boarded in Yokohama, Japan – midway through the voyage – wearing face masks.

We’ve had a wonderful time and visited some amazing places, from Vietnam and Hong Kong to Taiwan and Okinawa, but after a period of near-freezing temperatures, we’re more than ready for the next stage of our trip on land rather than sea – a sunshine break in Thailand and then Dubai.

Tuesday Feb 4

We’re having breakfast in the restaurant when a tannoy announcement instructs us to go back to our rooms immediately: ten more people have been diagnosed with the virus. We’re told they are being taken off the ship but the rest of us will be quarantined in our rooms for 14 days.

We can’t believe this is happening on the very day we were meant to leave the ship.

Everyone has been mixing together freely until now, so there’s a real risk that lots of us have come into contact with infected passengers.

We’ve all been issued with thermometers and told to take our temperature regularly and contact the ship’s medics if it goes over 37.5C.

Wednesday Feb 5: Quarantine Day 1

It’s dawning on us that our windowless cabin – with a double bed, tiny living area and bathroom – is now our prison.

No one is allowed to enter, and masked, gloved crew deliver food at the doorway, along with clean bedding and antiseptic wipes for us to clean our bathrooms. It’s not exactly what you sign up for when you book your dream trip.

On the plus side, passengers have set up a closed Facebook group to share news and support each other. For now, the mood is relatively upbeat.

Elaine and John's windowless cabin, with a double bed, tiny living area and bathroom

Elaine and John’s windowless cabin, with a double bed, tiny living area and bathroom

Thursday Feb 6: Day 2

After a bumpy night at sea, we dock back at Yokohama. We both feel down as reality bites.

With almost 3,000 passengers to serve over several floors, food delivery is erratic at best. Meals arrive at all times of day, in no particular order. You might get four meals delivered in one hour, then nothing for hours on end.

After nearly two days of being cooped up, we’re also desperate for fresh air, but have to content ourselves with whiling away our time reading, watching movies and catching up on news via the sporadic internet connection.

It’s surreal reading stories about our ship being at the centre of the coronavirus storm when we’re stuck on it.

At 4.30pm we get excited when the captain announces that passengers in inside cabins will be invited to take some exercise outside on a floor-by-floor basis.

Sadly, on Floor 12, we’re not among the first to be called.

A bit glum, we decide a whisky and Coke would cheer us up and try to order one from room service, only to be told alcohol is not permitted. Diet Coke it is.

Throughout the quarantine period the ship took to sea regularly for the production of fresh water and ballast operations.

An ambulance believed to carry a coronavirus patient leaves the cruise ship Diamond Princess at Daikoku Pier on February 18

An ambulance believed to carry a coronavirus patient leaves the cruise ship Diamond Princess at Daikoku Pier on February 18

Friday Feb 7: Day 3

We wake to news that three members of the ship’s Facebook group have tested positive. It’s sobering but baffling: one of them was tested but not his wife. Why? He has been taken off the ship, but she’s been told she’s clear. How do they know? There doesn’t seem to be any real system in place.

At midday the captain announces 41 more cases. It brings home the enormity of what we’re all dealing with.

John and I finally get to leave our cabin, although only for an hour and a half and equipped with face masks and PVC gloves. We’re told not to walk within one metre of another passenger.

At around 3C, it’s freezing on deck, but it feels so good to be in the fresh air. Above us we can hear helicopters – TV channels, we think – and with fellow passengers shuffling around in their masks, it strikes me what a surreal situation we’re in.

I notice lots of passengers coughing, which unnerves me. We try to keep our distance.

The captain updates us that, all being well, quarantine should end on Wednesday the 19th, which feels a long way away.

Saturday Feb 8: Day 4

We’re starting to understand how people must feel in captivity. Yes, we have nice surroundings, but the bed sheets need changing, the pillows are flat and being cooped up in a windowless room is getting us both down.

At least our lavatory is still working – on the Facebook group someone has posted that theirs is overflowing. I replied saying I hope help comes quicker than our daily coffee order.

John and I have both snapped at each other today, which is very unlike us. John has taken up jogging on the spot for an hour a day. I join him for the last 30 minutes.

Around 2pm there’s another announcement: two more positive cases, and 16 doctors and 12 nurses are coming on board.

Mid-afternoon, we take our temperature. Mine is 37.5 – at the upper end of normal. I’m not panicking as I have just eaten and exercised, so I wait an hour, by which time it has gone down.

Sunday Feb 9: Day 5

Neither of us slept much. The ship was rolling a lot in the night and then we were woken at 6.40am for breakfast – coffee and four yoghurts. We hear coughing in the corridor just after the delivery, and exchange a look. It’s hard not to feel paranoid.

In our Facebook group, the chat is about how passengers in cabins with a balcony can see a line of ambulances back in the port. I feel tearful.

At least we get outside again – although we have to dodge a man who doesn’t seem to understand the one-metre rule.

To shake him off we walk to the far end of the boat and watch the sun set over a calm sea. It’s so beautiful that for a moment we forget why we’re there.

We return to some good news: the full cost of our trip will be refunded and we can have another free cruise, too – although at the moment that doesn’t feel particularly enticing.

Monday Feb 10: Day 6

The captain announces at 10am that we can place orders for things we need – we can have anything except alcohol, tobacco and electronics.

We occupy ourselves by cleaning our bathroom and changing the sheets. John puts our dirty ones outside for collection – as we’d been instructed by our steward – only to receive a knock from an irate crew member telling us off for breaking the quarantine rules.

Things are getting to me. I end up in the bathroom for ten minutes having a good old cry.

We get an email from our son – a major achievement – telling us he’s heard reports there are 60 more cases on board. Why do we learn this from him and not the crew?

On Facebook, all the talk is about why the outside world knows what’s going on before we do.

Later the captain comes on and tells us there are in fact 66 new cases on board, all of whom will be taken off the ship today. From now on we must wear face masks to open the door to crew.

Tuesday Feb 11: Day 7

Halfway through! It’s a national holiday in Japan, although the bigger news for most passengers is that the Japanese authorities have granted permission for laundry to be collected floor by floor.

We opt out – we’ve been washing our smalls by hand in the bathroom sink as we feel it’s safer.

We’re also told cleaners will be allowed in the cabins – but that never happens. We do, though, get a knock at noon from a crew member delivering a box of vitamins. We pass another quiet day watching films, exercising and taking our turn on deck.

In the evening the captain confirms 65 diagnosed passengers have left the ship. In their place 55 nurses, 45 doctors and 45 pharmacists have now taken up residence on board. We’re not sure whether to be cheered or alarmed by this.

Wednesday Feb 12: Day 8

We’re woken at 5am by a booming tannoy message: ‘Code red, Code red’. We’re disoriented and scared. What’s going on? Hearts beating, we can only wait for the message to stop. When it does, the silence is very eerie.

Hours later the captain apologises, saying it was a malfunction: the announcement should not have been broadcast to passengers.

John is really fed up today and neither of our moods is improved by news that there are 38 more positive cases.

While we’ve had no symptoms, we’re concerned that we still haven’t been tested for the virus. I can’t stop thinking about what might happen if one of us tests positive and the other doesn’t.

Thursday Feb 13: Day 9

The mood is sombre today. We were kept awake overnight by a woman crying in a neighbouring cabin. The uncertainty is really getting us down.

Mid-morning, two Japanese men in green scrubs and masks knock on the door. They want our written consent to be tested – a swab applied to the back of the throat

We’re told we’ll get the results in three days and if they are negative, we can leave – but how and to where exactly, no one is saying.

We feel abandoned by the British Government. Our tour firm is in regular contact – but no one else.

Friday Feb 14: Day 10

Another dreary day. I’m finding the nine-hour time difference between us and home increasingly hard. We have to stay up until 2am to speak to family, and it’s hard to catch up on sleep in the day with the endless tannoy announcements and knocks on the door.

We spend most of today watching Monty Python sketches, which are only marginally more surreal than what we’re living through. What a way to spend Valentine’s Day.

I note that the person uploading film choices must have a sense of humour or a sadistic streak: among them is Groundhog Day.

Passengers on the deck wave to another passengers who leave the coronavirus-hit cruise ship Diamond Princess on February 21

Passengers on the deck wave to another passengers who leave the coronavirus-hit cruise ship Diamond Princess on February 21 

Saturday Feb 15: Day 11

We hear a commotion in the corridor and look out of our spy hole to see medics taking swabs from passengers in the opposite cabin. Why is it taking so long for other guests to be tested?

Sunday Feb 16: Day 12

We get to walk outside for an hour, then return to news on Facebook that there are 70 new cases today, bringing the total to 355. It’s all over the internet – but on board we’re not being told anything.

At 7.45pm we hear an announcement that US passengers will disembark tonight and Canadians the next day. It feels like everyone is deserting us.

Monday Feb 17: Day 13

We take our temperatures the moment we wake up – with the end of quarantine in sight, it would be unbearable if either of us were diagnosed now.

Tuesday Feb 18: Day 14

An email from the British Embassy: we will be repatriated but with a 14-day mandatory quarantine in Liverpool. It’s a long way from home. We’re very upset: another 14 days of confinement feels completely overwhelming.

Nor have we got our test results, so we don’t even know whether we have the virus or not. It’s all very confusing and nerve-racking. I’m desperate to give my four grandchildren a cuddle.

Wednesday Feb 19: Day 15

Officially our quarantine is over – but we’re not allowed to leave our cabin. Later in the day we learn that the Foreign Office has confirmed that an evacuation flight for Britons will depart on Friday from Tokyo to the UK.

Thursday Feb 20: Day 16

Arrangements have descended into farce. In the small hours we get a knock with our disembarkation papers and are told to get our suitcases packed – but we haven’t even got our test results. Our luggage is picked up shortly before we go to bed.

Friday Feb 21: Day 17

At 8.30am, a knock on the door and a crew member tells us our tests are negative. It’s the most enormous relief.

We also get an email from the Home Office confirming we’re booked on a flight from Tokyo at 5.15am on Saturday the 22nd – but we are not disembarking until 11.30pm tonight. That’s then amended to 6.30pm.

Our suitcases are brought back to us and we’re told to pack three days’ worth of essentials in our carry-on luggage only. Instructions keep changing, but we focus on the prospect of being back on British soil, even if we can’t go home.

One thing’s for sure: we’re in no rush to book another cruise.

As told to Kathryn Knight. Additional reporting by James Tozer 

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