‘Poop Cruise' passenger exposes filthy truth in viral Netflix documentary
A passenger on the notorious Carnival Triumph 'poop cruise' said the upcoming Netflix documentary fails to capture the true horror of four days at sea without food, power and sanitation – 'the scariest thing I've ever been through'.
The cruise from Texas to Mexico spiralled into chaos after an engine room fire triggered a massive electrical failure leaving over 4,000 passengers and crew wading through urine and faeces, and camping on deck.
It's the focus of an upcoming Netflix documentary Trainwreck: Poop Cruise, set to be released on June 24.
But one of the passengers, Tay Redford, 24, has watched the trailer and is 'hurt'.
Now a bakery owner from Enid, Oklahoma, she was just 12 when the ship lost power, leaving passengers in darkness, surrounded by sewage, and struggling for basic necessities.
She recalls the fear and chaos vividly, saying Carnival didn't offer meaningful support after the ordeal.
Gripped by long-term trauma, Tay worries the documentary doesn't represent survivors' voices – and vows never to cruise again.
'I've only seen the trailer, but from what I saw, it doesn't even scratch the surface,' she said.
'It's just Carnival workers telling the story.'
She added: 'It's really hard watching the documentary come out and seeing all these people making money from it.
'To me, it feels like they're profiting off something that deeply affected and traumatised me.'
On February 10, 2013, a fire ignited in the Carnival Triumph's aft engine room off the coast of Mexico after a flexible fuel oil return line failed, spraying fuel onto a hot surface and severely damaging the ship's generators.
This knocked out all main power and propulsion, leaving over 4,000 passengers and crew adrift in The Gulf of Mexico for four days.
Sewage flooded many cabins, and basic services collapsed as the ship was eventually towed to Mobile, Alabama over several days.
Tay was aboard the ship with her parents, older brother, and a group of family friends.
Intended as a family vacation, the trip quickly turned into a harrowing ordeal.
'It was the most fear I've ever felt in my life,' Tay recalled. 'I'm not that old yet, but that was hands down the scariest thing I've ever been through.'
The fire knocked out the ship's power, plunging the vessel into darkness and leaving passengers without basic services.
Tay's family was forced to abandon their cabin due to sewage and a lack of airflow.
'My first thought is we're sinking, we're going down. That was the only thing I thought. I was crying hysterically, trying to follow my parents around in the dark,' she said.
'When we went down to our room, we were up to our ankles in sewage and urine and faeces, and there was no air flow. There were no lights.'
The situation was chaotic and frightening, forcing the family to camp on the top deck for nearly four days.
Access to food, water, and sanitation was severely limited.
'They ran out of water to give us, so they said, 'Hey, we'll open up the bar and let people drink liquor,'' she recalled.
The decision reportedly backfired as frustrated, intoxicated passengers – angry over the lack of information and worsening conditions – began fighting.
According to Tay, some even resorted to 'throwing their bodily fluids over the ship' as tensions escalated.
'They forced their housekeeping staff to stay in rooms infested with sewage, withheld proper meals, and made them eat out of the trash,' Tay recalled.
'Carnival called my nana and was like, 'We just wanted to let you know there was a fire on-board. There are no casualties, but your family's just on an extended vacation. Have a nice day.''
Amid the chaos, Tay's brother became a source of ingenuity.
'My brother actually had this great idea,' Tay recalled.
'He said, I'm going to build a tent out of these sheets. And he cut the sheets up and invented Tent City where everybody followed him to make tents to keep us out of the sun.'
The disabled ship was slowly towed back to port in Mobile, Alabama, as passengers endured days of hardship before finally reaching land.
While Carnival eventually provided a small compensation – $500 and a refund for the trip home – Tay says the company never truly addressed the trauma experienced by those on-board.
'Carnival never reached out – never,' she said.
'They gave us $500 and reimbursed my parents for the trip home, but that was it. After that, it was like nothing ever happened. No one was supposed to talk about it.'
The lack of communication and support from Carnival left Tay and her family feeling abandoned.
The experience left deep scars. Tay now suffers from long-term trauma and anxiety, particularly around the ocean and extreme weather.
As for her own future, Tay is resolute. 'I would absolutely never go on a cruise again.'
Hashtags
Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles
News.com.au
2 hours ago
- News.com.au
Christie Brinkley on Billy Joel, romantic rivals, and the ‘only time I miss having a man in my life'
Sitting cross-legged on the floor of her home in the Hamptons, Christie Brinkley looks youthful and chic in an oversized blue shirt and jeans. Little wonder: the model, actor, entrepreneur and mum-of-three has been commanding the camera for over half a century. Emerging at the dawn of the supermodel era, the 71-year-old has graced more than 500 magazine covers as well as starring in ex- husband Billy Joel's video for her own theme song, 'Uptown Girl'. But if she exemplifies all-American wholesomeness, Brinkley also embodies survivor's resolve. As she chronicles in her recently released memoir Uptown Girl, she suffered beatings by her biological father, the shock race car-related death of a boyfriend, humiliation by more than one husband, and terrifying helicopter crash in which she was certain she would die. 'I knew some memories were going to be fun to revisit and others would be really hard,' she tells Stellar via Zoom. 'But I'm not that introspective. Mum raised me to look on the bright side.' From the day she was discovered, at age 19, by a photographer outside a Paris post office, Brinkley regarded modelling as a gateway to new adventures. So much so that when celebrated agent Eileen Ford told her to lose weight by eating only fish, she ignored the advice. 'I am so about the experience, and I figured if I get a trip to Mexico, I'm eating tortillas, guacamole, I'm having margaritas,' she says. 'I want the full experience. I don't want to cut myself off from any of that.' That includes the ups and downs of her relationships with four ex-husbands. Brinkley's lawyer calls her a 'bad picker', and a psychiatrist she saw during her six-year divorce battle with fourth husband Peter Cook recommended she seek therapy for trust issues. 'But I prefer to keep on believing and seeing the good in people,' she says. The marriages, to artist Jean-François Allaux, musician Joel, real estate entrepreneur Ricky Taubman and architect Cook, may not have lasted, but she shares 39-year-old singer Alexa Ray with Joel; aspiring actor Jack, 30, with Taubman; and model Sailor, who is 27 this week, with Cook. The proud mum, who painted Joel's River Of Dreams album cover, has her own artworks of the children adorning her house. Fondness for Joel endures. The couple met on a Caribbean island in 1983, where he initially dated Australian model Elle Macpherson. 'We were at his apartment and he said, 'I'm going to call Elle because I've been out with her a couple of times and I want to let her know that now I want to be exclusive with you',' Brinkley recalls. 'I don't know whether he was trying to impress me, or to be nice to Elle in case she saw a picture of us.' Today she and Joel maintain a friendship. He is godfather to Jack and Sailor and, until his recent diagnosis with a rare brain disorder put his live shows on hold, they attended his concerts together. 'Alexa just had a long conversation with him and she said he sounded good, but he's got a lot of physical therapy to contend with,' Brinkley reveals. 'We're all just cheering him on.' While she continues to evolve in business with her own wine and clothing labels, and as an environmental activist, the memoir allowed time for reflection, such as reminiscing about the days when images were shot on film. 'Now there are so many cooks in the kitchen you don't have that same kind of magic,' she laments. Ageing is another bugbear. 'You have choices … If you don't like something, there's a million ways to fix it,' she says, adding that energy and curiosity are 'more useful than any cream you can buy in a jar'. As she chats, one daughter, then another, flies out the door. Does she ever feel lonely? 'I'm very content,' Brinkley says, glancing out of her window at the night rolling in. 'The only time I miss having a man in my life is when there's a magnificent sunset or a storm sweeping across, and I want to share that moment with somebody I love.' Uptown Girl: A Memoir by Christie Brinkley with Sarah Toland ($36.99, HarperCollins) is out now.
News.com.au
12 hours ago
- News.com.au
Jōhatsu: Inside the mysterious phenomenon of Japan's vanishing people
Ever wanted to disappear? Maybe you're drowning in debt. Or your toxic job is grinding you into the ground. That loveless marriage. There are many reasons why people can feel the urge to vanish. For good. But in Japan, these people all go by the same special name. 'Johatsu'. The evaporated. They choose to abandon everything – their lives, jobs, homes and families – for a chance to start again. It's a real-life vanishing act. Disconnected from their past, these lost souls can spend decades in the shadows of society. Without ever looking back. Since the mid-1990s, Japan has recorded around 80,000 Johatsu each year. It's a dark mirror on the invisible pressure these people face to conform. But where do they go? What happens to who they leave behind? And what can it teach us about missing people in Australia? Shame of failure Johatsu: Into Thin Air is a recent documentary charting this mysterious phenomenon. It took Berlin-based film makers Andreas Hartmann and Arata Mori over six years to complete the sensitive project. To protect the privacy of the Johatsu, the movie was released under strict conditions: it will never be publicly screened in Japan. It's screening in Melbourne next month. Mori, who was born in Japan, told the idea of Johatsu is universal – despite its unique cultural roots. 'We've all thought about disappearing from our lives before,' said Mori. In Japan, this desire can be driven by infamously high social expectations. The shame of failing to meet them – through divorce, debt, job loss or failing an exam – can feel like a stain that will never be wiped clean. This includes a workplace culture where quitting is considered shameful. Despite demands to work hours so long they can be deadly. The pressure to conform to such norms is so powerful, evaporating feels like the only solution. Under cover of darkness Despite running away from everyone, the Johatsu don't go it alone. In fact, they turn to what's called a 'night mover'. It's the job of the night movers to spirit people to new, secret locations under cover of darkness. They're all about doing things discreetly. Night movers can make their job look like an abduction. Make homes look like they've been robbed. And make paper trails or financial transactions go away. It's a whole economy for those who want never to be found. And while the johatsu might be shrouded in mystery, the night movers are not hard to find. With easily accessed websites and offices, they operate in plain view. As for the people the Johatsu leave behind? There's a service for them, too. Just don't expect it from the boys in blue. Unless a crime occurred, police refuse to get involved. 'It can be very difficult to get assistance from the local police due to Japanese privacy laws,' says Hartmann. 'Many people seek assistance from private investigators to help find missing people. This is basically the opposite of a night mover.' 'Rather die' Japan has a rich cultural history of saving face. 'Japan has a long history of people killing themselves to preserve their honour,' says Mori. 'Even now, you still hear of it happening. These people would rather die than live in shame.' Disappearing is an attractive alternative. While it may put their families through the pain of uncertainty, at least it protects them from the crushing costs of suicide. In Japan, relatives become liable for a suicide's debt. They may also be hit with huge fees from the management of the building or train from where they meet their fate. 'While Johatsu can be seen as a form of suicide, they're in fact opposites,' says Mori. 'Johatsu is the act of choosing not to die but live.' Not the end of the story Indeed, the belief in a fresh start speaks to hope as much as despair. But it's not the end of the story. Into Thin Air paints a bleak picture of evaporated life. Some Johatsu live in tiny, squalid accommodation, and work dodgy, off-the-books jobs. Opening up this experience in itself can be cathartic. 'It was an opportunity for these people to finally share their story, which they have kept to themselves for a very long time,' says Hartmann. 'The filmmaking was a kind of therapy for them.' This therapy can be sorely needed. Because the feelings of sadness and regret haunt the Johatsu long after they leave their lives behind. 'Their second lives are of course not totally happy ones, but there is something positive about it,' says Mori. Ambiguous loss Some Johatsu long for what they lost, watching their families as if from behind a frosted glass door they can never open. It's no less painful than what their families endure themselves – a unique kind of grief known as 'ambiguous loss'. Without knowing where Johatsu go, they never get closure. And this dark cycle can repeat itself. 'We've also noticed that disappearances in families are repeated in cycles,' says Hartmann. 'Many relatives of the disappeared go on to disappear. Or the disappeared turn out to have a parent go missing growing up. One Johatsu in the film is under the hallucination she is being stalked. But for others, the threat– a stalker, gangster or knife-wielding ex – is very real. The documentary opens with a stense scene in which a man fleeing a possessive partner is bundled inside a night mover's van. 'These people are often fleeing debt, domestic violence, the mafia or family problems' Hartmann says. 'They simply want to start afresh in a new place where nobody knows them.' But often, Hartmann said the Johatsu were simply motivated by a consuming sense of alienation. 'Sometimes people just don't feel they belong.' Cautionary tale Japan is the perfect place to disappear. Unlike Australia, the country has no national database for missing people. It's also against the law for police to access ATM transactions or financial records without a warrant. 'The great value of privacy makes Japan an ideal place to lead an anonymous life,' says Hartmann. The idea of the Johatsu is not foreign to Western Cultures. In the US, Hartmann refers to a crisis management professional who helps celebrities disappear. He also says Japanese night movers are now helping people relocate overseas. With costs of living and working hours climbing in Australia, we're not immune to the danger of a disappearing trend. With costs of living and working hours climbing in Australia, we're not immune to the danger of a disappearing trend. That's where the most potent message of Into Thin Air – that it's never too late to reconcile – can bring hope. After almost four decades after disappearing, one Johatsu in the film is seen reconnecting with his family. 'This story showed us there's always hope for reconciliation,' says Hartmann. 'We would be very grateful if anyone watching this film got a new perspective on their problems,' Mori.
News.com.au
13 hours ago
- News.com.au
Confusion over Justin Bieber's sudden name change
What does he mean? Justin Bieber's social media activity continues to baffle fans, with the Baby singer changing his Instagram name on Thursday. Instead of the @justinbieber handle the Grammy winner, 31, has had for years, his account is now @lilbieber, reports Page Six. The pop star did not draw attention to the name change or give any further context. He did, however, hint at the update on Tuesday when he posted black-and-white photos cuddling his and Hailey Bieber's 10-month-old son, Jack. 'lil bieber,' the songwriter captioned the social media upload, alongside a lock emoji. Justin's rep has yet to respond to Page Six's request for comment. Social media users poked fun at the name change, referencing the brief period in 2014 when Justin's username was @bizzle. 'Bro thinks he's a rapper,' one X user joked, with another speculating about an 'incoming mixtape.' A third quipped that Justin is in his 'Xila Maria River Red era,' referencing Britney Spears' Instagram name. Another urged Hailey, 28, to 'come get [her] man.' Justin and the model have been together on and off since 2016, getting married in 2018 and renewing their vows six years later while expecting their baby boy. Jack arrived in August 2020. Since the little one's birth, Justin and Hailey have sparked break-up rumours, only fuelled by Justin's social media activity — despite his wife's insistence to Vogue that they are still going strong. The American Music Award winner made headlines for Instagram uploads about 'transactional' relationships and the 'silent treatment' in recent months. He shares on the platform frequently and racked up 12 in-feed posts on Thursday alone, including one of Jack sitting in a cardboard box full of balls. Many of Justin's uploads referenced the viral line from his expletive-filled screaming match with the paparazzi earlier this month, during which he said, 'It's not clocking to you that I'm standing on business.' At the time, Justin also insisted, 'I love my wife, I love my family and you provoke me and it's sad.'
