—and how we’re keeping the whimsy without the waste.
I took my first cruise in the midnight-buffet era, when the only surprising waterfowl aboard was a swan carved from ice with a chainsaw. Hiding rubber ducks? Not a thing. Fast-forward to last year: murmurs in a cruise-specific Facebook group about hiding ducks onboard briefly caught my attention—but it wasn’t until a pocket-sized sailor duck found us in the Norwegian Jade’s atrium that the charm of the cruise duck quacked clearly to me. That little duck still lives on our kitchen windowsill, alongside a much smaller one we found in the casino—happy reminders of my spouse’s and my first cruise together.
Here’s the gist: think of it as geocaching meets kindergarten joy, only nautical. Passengers hide rubber or resin ducks around the ship—some tagged, some rogue. Find one, post a pic, and either keep or re-hide it. It’s a micro-gift economy powered by collective whimsy. What’s not to love?
So when I joined the Facebook group for our upcoming Virgin Voyages cruise, I noticed the feed was silent on fanciful fowl. No quacks. No hashtags. This will be my first sailing on Virgin Voyages, and every cruise line has its own nuances, so I posted a query to dig deeper. Facebook did what Facebook does and offered up a range of opinions double-quick. Major themes emerged:
- “Extra plastic. Hard pass.”
- “Kid stuff—wrong ship.”
- “I’m packing a whole flock. No room for haters.”
- “Do you—if you like it, I love it.”
I feel almost every side. I’m a long‑time Burner; my love language is tiny, intentional magic gifted freely—but never MOOP.1 Whimsy and joy shared between strangers shouldn’t be a privilege restricted to childhood—and isn’t that part of the Virgin Voyages vibe? I mean—plastic drifting in the Caribbean? Hard no, obviously. But a thoughtful token that sparks delight? Yes, please!
My Devil‑Duck Game Plan
So you wanna play the game, without ruining the vibe? Here are my tips for duck drops worth of a Valiant Lady:
- Stay on brand. I chose one dozen scarlet‑red devil ducks, 1.5×1.5 cm each—pocket‑friendly, sass‑forward, minimal plastic.
- Offer—don’t litter. A duck stays with me until a willing caretaker says yes. No random shelf drops, take zero chances it somersaults overboard.
- Moments over masses.
- “A duck for luck?” to the roulette player who shares my number.
- A thank‑you tucked beside the bartender’s tip after a flawless mocktail.
- A surprise offered to delight the new friend made during Scarlet Night.
- Small is mighty. Twelve whispers of delight beat fifty ducks abandoned on windowsills.
A duck for luck?
Why Bother?
Because grown‑ups deserve play. Because generosity can be goofy. Because a fingertip‑sized red devil duck might become the story a stranger tells back home: “Some queer femme handed me a lucky duck—and I finally hit my lucky number.” That’s the kind of ripple‑effect magic I can’t resist sharing.
Join the Quack‑versation
Hidden ducks, rescued ducks, or skeptical side‑eye—share your tale below. My favorite story earns a siren’s song from across the high seas—maybe even signed by a tiny devil.
Always with love,
La Donna
- MOOP = “Matter Out Of Place”—Burner shorthand for litter.
Want to learn more about attending a burn? Check out my BFF Bevin’s podcast A Queer Fat Femme Over 40 & Her Friends, “Vlog: Burning Man Regional all about my first time!“ ↩︎
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