Trapped on a floating prison with a thousand drunken fanatics. Are we having fun yet?

For more information on Ships & Dip and other rock-themed cruises, click here.

Getting naked with hundreds of people you've never met might sound like a good idea. But it turns out to be kind of awkward and uncomfortable. Especially when it's 10 a.m. and you're stone-cold sober on the deck of a cruise ship somewhere in the Atlantic.

The nudity itself isn't the real problem. It's the lead-up. When you know that you're about to expose your private bits to the world, all sorts of paranoid thoughts flash through your head. You wonder if maybe you're the only one stupid enough to actually go through with this. A strong breeze off the ocean has an amazing ability to circumvent even the most tightly secured bathrobe and find its way to your genitals. If you're a guy, this can have an adverse effect on the size of your business. Which is distressing if you're planning to share it with complete strangers anytime soon. You consider slipping a hand inside your robe, just to give a gentle tug to make sure you're "show ready." But there are too many snooping eyes. We're not just here to get naked; we're here to have our photo taken. In a way, this has a calming effect on the crowd. It makes us feel a little less vulnerable. We're convinced that if we choose our placement wisely, our frightened reproductive organs will be obscured, just another pink blur in a vast panorama of naked flesh.

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We're convinced that if we choose our placement wisely, our frightened reproductive organs will be obscured, just another pink blur in a vast panorama of naked fleshIt's only day two of Ships & Dip, a five-day "rock cruise" headlined by Canadian popsmiths the Barenaked Ladies, and I'm already about to do something I know I'll regret. Not in a fun way or a "that was such a crazy trip, man" sort of way, but in a haunting, traumatizing way that could take years of therapy to undo. They tell me the nude portrait was the band's idea. It started out on last year's cruise, when they invited guests to join them for a photo themed on the "barenaked" part of their name. To the band's surprise, hundreds of passengers showed up. This year, not counting me, there are 953 would-be nudists on the deck.

The sea air is filled with nervous tittering. From what I can gather, the mob is made up of equal parts men and women, young and old, physically semi-attractive and the reason why civilization insists on clothing. More than a few look like characters from a Tolkien novel. None have bodies that are complimented by direct sunlight. The most repeated phrase of the hour is, "I can't believe I'm doing this," followed by a nasal Fran Drescher laugh. There's a very loud man a few rows ahead of me who's pretending to be helpful: "When you pick up your bathrobe after the shoot, please bend with your knees!" he reminds us.

A photographer perched on a ladder above us orders the crowd to disrobe, and we do so, in unison. There's a lot of cheering and hooting. I don't see much naked flesh, other than the clenched butt cheeks of the people standing directly in front of me, and a woman who has draped her breasts over a guardrail, like a pair of tube socks filled with gravy.

"One more second for safety," the photographer bellows, snapping frantically. "One more for safety, one more for safety ..."

My gaze drifts toward the ship's bow, and I contemplate jumping overboard and swimming for shore. It's probably suicide, but at this point, it seems like a reasonable option.

ALL FANS ON DECK! Barenaked Ladies' promotional video for Ships & Dip V

If you asked me a few weeks ago if I'd ever consider going on a cruise, I would have said you were crazy. Cruises aren't meant for self-respecting adults. They're for morbidly obese families who regard Disney World as "too ethnic," or old people looking to pass the time while they wait for the sweet release of death. Even more absurd to me was the concept of the rock cruise. When the headliners are Sister Hazel and Toad the Wet Sprocket and the year isn't 1997, it's not exactly a floating Coachella. And those are the modern acts. If you want to watch Lynyrd Skynyrd limp through "Sweet Home Alabama," you can do it without entering international waters.

A rock cruise is like Las Vegas with all the exits cut offBut in the past few years, rock cruises have evolved from novelty fad to legitimate vacation option. Musicians who don't usually play at county fairs and Indian casinos—think Dave Matthews or Bela Fleck—are now sailing the high seas, and audiences who might normally spend their music budgets at festivals like Bonnaroo are showing up in record numbers. Apparently, rock cruises are hot. Or, at least, not uncool. This February, when John Mayer's Mayercraft Carrier set sail on its debut voyage, photos quickly circulated of the musician wandering the ship in his Borat Speedo. (Blender filed a particularly giggly report in April, going into perhaps too much detail about Mayer's "man-scaped junk.") It was obviously a signal to his audience that the cruise wasn't meant to be taken seriously.

Because I easily cave to peer pressure, I was determined to experience this oceanic bacchanal firsthand, to immerse myself in the horror of it all. But by the time my bags were packed, there were few options left. All the cabins were booked on the Mayercraft Carrier, as were the ones on every other cruise with a band I might actually listen to on dry land. The only tickets available were for Ships & Dip, the Barenaked Ladies' second-annual tour of the Caribbean. Without hesitating, I signed up.

If you've ever lived in Los Angeles, you've most likely experienced that moment when you're out with your friends and somebody says, "Hey, we should drive to Las Vegas!" So you all pile into the car thinking you're being spontaneous and wild, until you get about midway through the desert and return to your senses. Las Vegas is never as good as you think it's going to be. Wayne Newton, in actuality, isn't so hilariously kitschy. He's just kind of creepy.

A rock cruise is like Las Vegas with all the exits cut off.

DAY 1:
Standing in line at the Port of Miami, as my wife and I wait to pick up our boarding passes, we survey the crowd: a sea of Hawaiian shirts, Bermuda shorts, and homemade Viking helmets. We don't question whether their fashion choices are meant in jest. We have to believe that they are, as the only other explanation is too terrifying to contemplate. By the check-in counter, we spot a teenage girl with purple hair and a faded Fugazi T-shirt. Judging from her eye-rolling and impatient huffing as she waits for her father to check in, she couldn't be less thrilled to be here. The irony of it all, apparently, is beyond her.

The crowd is screaming along with every lyric. Some of them are actually crying. If their enthusiasm is meant to be ironic, they're playing their cards very close to the chestTickets in hand, we drag our luggage onto the Carnival Victory, an endless maze of stairs and hallways, all inexplicably leading back to the central dining room. It seems the ship's architect had a fondness for M.C. Escher and hash brownies. We eventually stumble onto our room, a windowless cell with questionable stains on the carpet, and quickly change into our cruise attire. We wander up to the Lido Deck just in time for the launch party and the first show by the Barenaked Ladies. I'm feeling a bit like that teenage girl: haggard, hostile, and prepared to hate everything.

And then I'm offered a coconut filled with rum. "You can use it later as a coin bank," a waiter explains, as if this were a major selling point. Three or four coin banks later, I'm ready to mingle. My wife and I meet a thirtysomething couple named Marie and John (they've seen the band three times in concert) and their friend Harriet (eight times), who proudly informs us that she's the only African American on the boat.

"If you see a black person, just yell out, 'Hey, Harriet!'" she chirps. "It's probably me."

We also exchange pleasantries with Sal and Mary Anne from Long Island, who plan their Vegas trips around the Ladies' tour schedule because they "like the slots." And Samantha from Orlando, whose 10-year-old son Christopher has spent the past few months helping her train for the Guitar Hero competition, which takes place tomorrow morning. She doesn't like to brag, but thanks to her son's guidance, she has a 76 percent proficiency.

It's all very social and affable, but I feel like a fraud: I'm not a fan of the Barenaked Ladies. In fact, I'm only vaguely aware of their music. I remember "One Week" when it was played incessantly on the radio in 1998. And I've heard the occasional song since, like that one about Yoko Ono or the one where they rap-sing about monkey-themed postcards. At best, they seemed like Weezer for people who enjoy adorable puns or a cheerier They Might Be Giants, heavily dosed on Wellbutrin.

The rum starts to take hold, and I become stupidly hopeful. I'm not just here for the band, I tell myself. I didn't get on this cruise for the Barenaked Ladies any more than people flock to Mardi Gras for the free plastic beads. I'm here for the experience. The band is singing about eating Kraft mac 'n' cheese in a tree fort and the crowd is screaming along with every lyric. Some of them are actually crying. If their enthusiasm is meant to be ironic, they're playing their cards very close to the chest.

The ship's horns announce that we're leaving Miami, and the Ladies are singing one of their non-hits called "Some Fantastic." The chorus rings out: "Bye-bye, self-respect ..." I order another cocktail and try not to look alarmed.

SEQUESTERED AT SEA The Real World: Barenaked Ladies Cruise Edition

DAY 2:
At 38, I'm not so old and jaded that I don't understand the appeal of Guitar Hero. But there's a big difference between playing a video game and watching other people play it. To be fair, the vast majority of the passengers gathered in the mid-ship Disco Bar aren't just here to cheer on the prowess of their peers. They've come to gawk at Ed Robertson.

The band members are making the rounds, shaking hands, and posing for photographs. I have yet to see one of them promise to lower gas prices, but it wouldn't surprise me"I hear you've been practicing," Robertson says to the crowd with a playful sneer. "I look at you as lambs before the slaughter." Robertson, the band's 37-year-old lead guitarist and singer, is hosting the Guitar Hero Championships, one of many activities scheduled for the first "Rock Day at Sea." The Disco is standing-room-only, and dozens of would-be rockers are waiting on the sidelines, preparing for their musical showdown.

Robertson's job is to keep the crowd entertained, usually by covering the players' eyes or blocking the TV screen with his hands or body. With his dark good looks and buff, tattooed arms, he's the band's resident heartthrob, and is clearly comfortable in the role. He flirts shamelessly with his female fans, and at one point even announces to one of the contestants that while she's playing, "I will be touching you inappropriately."

When Robertson has to leave early for another gig—he's drumming for one of the other bands on the ship—the audience lets out a collective sigh. An attractive brunette named Lisa, probably in her early thirties, wearing a T-shirt with an iron-on picture of Robertson, is so upset she bursts into tears.

"It's just not fair," she says in a high-pitched wail. "I wanted to play for Ed!"

At least on this ship, fans expect something more intimate than idol worship. They want a personal connection with the band. And the Barenaked Ladies deliver on that promise. They treat the passengers like friends. They know a staggering number of them on a first-name basis, and they're not shy about sucking up to the customer. If they're not performing, the band members are making the rounds, greeting the guests, shaking hands, and posing for photographs. I have yet to see one of them promise to lower gas prices, but it wouldn't surprise me.

At the Double Dippers show (exclusively for fans returning for a second cruise), Robertson wears an official "Michael From San Dimas Fan Club" T-shirt. Michael from San Dimas, it's explained, is just some dude who really, really likes the band.

Back in our cabin, my wife notices that the TV is playing Barenaked Ladies videos and concert films in a continuous loop. Outside, there are posters everywhere, advertising the event you've already paid for. Kim Jong Il has nothing on these people.

DAY 3:
Most of the day is a blur of live shows. I watch sets by Carbon Leaf, Griffin House, and other acts I've never heard of. They're likable enough, but all the inoffensive saccharine-rock quickly starts to blend into one seamless, 12-hour pop anthem.

Not that there isn't variety. The cruise features a diverse lineup, including power-pop brooders (The New Odds), indie-rock almost-weres (Harvey Danger), alt-country cynics (The Handsome Family), Weather Channel theme-song providers (Guster), and of course, Canadian singer-songwriters (Howie Beck, Jason Collett, Sarah Harmer), who are here in such great numbers that Canada's coffee shops must be eerily silent.

At a cocktail social for members of the Barenaked Ladies' Internet fan club, a middle-age man in a red bandanna tells me the band "literally saved my life" And then there are bands like Oakhurst, who have become staples on the rock cruise circuit. The Denver-based bluegrass quintet has performed on at least six cruises, beginning with a supporting gig on the "Groove Cruise," where they played mostly hallways and elevators.

"We just love these ships," says mandolinist Adam "Tarzano" Smith. "It's not about being a rock star. It's about having a good time, playing some good music, sweating on the floor, dancing around like an idiot, and just going crazy."

The musicians admit that connecting with their fans is the main reason they do these tours. "We're literally trapped with them," says Chris Budin, Oakhurst's drummer. "If I could, I'd sneak into everybody's cabin and spoon with them."

He probably wouldn't encounter much resistance. Rock cruise passengers aren't casual music fans. They live and breathe the stuff. And everyone I've spoken to has at least one story about the music's deep and significant impact on them.

At a cocktail social for members of the Barenaked Ladies' Internet fan club, a middle-age man in a red bandanna tells me the band "literally saved my life."

"What, like they pulled you out of a burning building?" I venture.

"It's their music, man," he says, as his friends nod in solemn agreement. "Without them, I never would've made it through my divorce."

A short, rotund woman has a similar tale. "Their songs got me through some really rough times," she says, her eyes growing misty. "I don't think I'd be here without them."

For many of these people, the cruise isn't just a vacation; it's something altogether more personal. Howard and Cindy of Ohio, both in their early sixties, have decided to celebrate their honeymoon (a second marriage for both) on Ships & Dip, and they've brought along their adult children and grandchildren. And everyone's buzzing about Charlene and Richard, a young couple who got married in a private ceremony just as the ship was leaving Miami. Rumor has it the newlyweds pledged eternal devotion to each other and the Barenaked Ladies.

"I think it's sweet that our music means so much to them," says Steven Page, the Ladies' other lead singer and guitarist. "But sometimes I feel alienated by it. [The fans] have this community, and it's almost like it has nothing to do with us. It's a world that wouldn't have existed without us, but it's not really about us anymore."

With perfect timing, Page is interrupted by a starstruck young woman asking for an autograph. Then for a photo. She clings to him like a starving lamprey.

DAY 4:
We've docked at Ocho Rios, Jamaica, but there's a nasty downpour and I don't bother to venture outside. Instead, I devote my afternoon to seeking out anything about this cruise that makes it even slightly rock-worthy. So far, I've come up with just one example: A cruise, not unlike rock music, is based on the fundamental right to overindulge in things that are very bad for you. It's all about excess, the difference being that a cruise traffics primarily in legal substances. You're more likely to experience a blocked artery than a drug overdose.

The waiters have seemingly been instructed to ask only one question of their guests: "Is that all?" prompting my wife and I to invent a new term, "Cruise full." When you're traveling on a cruise, you don't eat when you're hungry. You eat when your gallbladder is no longer throbbing.

After Oakhurst's performance on the Lido Main Stage is canceled because of rain, they decide to perform an impromptu acoustic hootenanny next to the pool. It's a casual set, made all the more intimate by the lack of a stage. The crowd surrounds them in a tight circle, and, fueled by rum drinks, collectively begins to flail their limbs to the beat like the zombie dancers in "Thriller."

The highlight comes at the very end of the set, when an 80-year-old woman breaks into a full-body grind during a mandolin solo. I've never seen an elderly person thrust her hips quite so provocatively. Directly behind her, a giant man with a Mohawk sticks out his tongue and flashes her rock horns in appreciation.

It's one of the weirdest and most wonderful things I've ever seen. Everything good and true and worthwhile about this cruise can be summed up in those five blissful seconds.

When my wife and I finally return to our cabin, we're exhausted and exhilarated; too excited to sleep, but too drunk to stand. We've almost convinced ourselves that this cruise is the real deal. Ludicrous though it surely is, its heart is in the right place.

And then we see the vagina.

It isn't the first time our maids have left us towel origami. But until now they've usually created adorable animal portraits that smile up at us from the bed like something out of Narnia. ("That," my wife muttered upon discovering our first towel bunny, "is so not rock 'n' roll.") I don't have anything against towel art on general principle. Tonight, however, they may have gone too far.

At first we wonder if it might be some kind of aquatic creature. A squid, maybe? But after studying it for a few seconds, we know exactly what it is we're looking at. I poke at the thing with a sneaker until it collapses into a shapeless heap. Then my wife and I climb onto the bed and pass out on top of the covers.

DAY 5:
My body is starting to break down. I don't even know where I am or what I'm looking at anymore. And my urine is now a shade of Persian blue.

The big event of the day is the Songwriters' Panel, a "best of" from the ship's musical talent pool. The artists are sitting onstage in a single row, holding acoustic guitars and waiting for their chance to sing an original song for the capacity crowd.

For the most part, these are acts we've already seen. But watching the same performances again and again is not without its life lessons. I've learned, for instance, that my passion for rock music is sorely lacking. Whenever a lead singer asks the crowd if we're enjoying ourselves, our first response is never loud enough, never powered with the guttural volume that conveys sincerity. It always requires a second and even third attempt before our enthusiasm makes the grade.

More important, though, I've learned that rock music is something best enjoyed in small doses. At its best, it's an explosive event. It builds to a crescendo and then crashes. Five days of rock exhilaration is like being the center of attention at a gang bang. It leads to wobbly legs, numbness, and chafing.

Later that night, my wife and I are at the final Barenaked Ladies show of the cruise. It's a beautiful performance, if only because the band seems to be as bleary and emotionally bankrupt as the fans. There's a charming sloppiness to their performance, and a willingness to let the audience share the spotlight. A female devotee joins the band onstage to hold a book of lyrics for Robertson, who has forgotten the words to one of his own songs. And later, an 11-year-old boy named Devon fills in on drums for "The Old Apartment." Though his playing is clumsy, the crowd cheers like they're at a tent revival.

The concert eventually slips into perfect chaos. During an improvised banter, Tyler, the drummer, begins singing, "Anything can happen on the cruuuu-zah!" His smarmy declaration is only mildly funny the first time, but as it's repeated and repeated and repeated, the entire auditorium grows delirious with laughter. Before long, this absurd koan becomes the most hilarious goddamn thing we've ever heard, and from the stage to the very back row, everyone is singing along: "Anything can happen on the cruuuu-zah!"

After the show, my wife is worn out and wants to go to bed, but I'm too wired to sleep. Luckily, Great Big Sea is doing a set on the Lido Main Stage. "Are we going to do this right?" Alan Doyle, GBS's lead vocalist, howls shamelessly at the audience. "Let's make this the greatest show in the history of the Promenade Deck!"

Under different circumstances, I'd likely have to suppress the urge to toss an empty beer can at his head. But after five days here, I'm actually starting to believe this bullshit.

"We'll hate ourselves for years to come if we don't make a spectacular evening out of this," Doyle yells, arteries throbbing in his neck. "Is this an all-night kind of crowd?" We respond by screaming louder, jumping higher. We look like rag dolls being shaken violently by an angry child. I think I'm finally starting to understand. This isn't about being on a cruise, or even about rock 'n' roll. The essence of a rock cruise is about being trapped. It's about being forced to endure the same stimulus for 120 hours straight. My wife and I don't look like people who've been on a Caribbean vacation. We have the nervous twitches and filthy faces of miners rescued from a collapsed shaft. We don't even have tans—in fact, we're paler than when we left. If it weren't for the rum and lavish buffets, it would be a bit like Guantánamo Bay. Bone tired, ears ringing, severely dehydrated, and completely isolated from the outside world, I'm broken.

A moment later, I'm approached by a small man with a mop of red hair and a Cheshire cat grin. His name is Lyall Phillips. I know this because he watched me write it down and made sure I had the correct spelling. He asks if I'm having fun, and when I say yes, he offers me a high five.

"That's all I've been doing today," he tells me. "That's all I've been doing all week. I'm the High-Five Guy. You can print that. You talked to Lyall Phillips, the High-Five Guy."

I return his high five, which somehow leads into a hug. He slinks away to find other passengers in need of palm-on-palm contact, and my attention drifts back to the stage, where Doyle is still preaching to the crowd.

"This point in history is spectacular," he says, executing a dramatic strum on his guitar for emphasis. "This is our walk on the moon!"

I've heard marathon runners talk about this. It's that moment when you're exhausted and you want to give up, but then the endorphins kick in and it's like you've been hit with a lighting bolt of energy and positive mojo. I'm pretty sure it's the same phenomenon gurus experience on desert vision quests. When I first embarked on Ships & Dip, I didn't care for any of the bands. But somewhere between my 400th fist pump and losing my voice, I entered a trancelike state.

Now I'm so far gone, I can't listen to "Pinch Me" without crying.

The music still echoing in the background, I wander up to the ship's bow for some fresh air. I'm feeling ... what's the opposite of cynical? Non-cynical? Blissfully naive? I've somehow regressed to a less sardonic period in my life, before I concluded that a catchy melody must bespeak a lack of credibility. The baby boom generation taught us not to trust anyone over 30. I come from a generation that believes you shouldn't trust anyone who isn't smirking. And I'm not so sure if I believe that anymore. I don't want to be the condescending prick who only enjoys Arcade Fire B-sides and Mountain Goats cassettes. I want to hum along guilt-free to songs that will inevitably end up in car commercials and teen drama soundtracks. I want my music to be like pizza: simple and uncomplicated, something everybody can agree on.

I boarded this ship wanting to be the guy in the John Mayer Speedo, sitting by the pool and sipping a cocktail with a little umbrella, with an expression that announced to all onlookers, "I'm only here for the camp value. Just wait until my friends in Williamsburg hear about this." Instead, I became the dork dancing near the stage and holding up a lighter during the slow songs.

I stumble onto a gaggle of passengers in their early twenties, clinging to the railing and staring out at the vast ocean.

"Dude, are you gonna vomit?" one asks.

"I totally am," another responds.

Soon they're all retching. "This is so cool," one says, laughing. "We're like Jimi Hendrix!"

The old me would've told them how wrong they are. I would've reminded them that Jimi Hendrix did many, many substantial things that had nothing to do with vomit. Instead, I just walk over and give each and every one of them a high five. Because that's what you do on a rock cruise.