Stick around long enough, and the geriatric demographics catch up with you, too. I once met some Maine RR enthusiasts who seemed to have skipped the usual steps of Aging → Dying → Going to Heaven. They just got older and drifted directly into railroad restoration paradise, bypassing the unpleasant middle part entirely.

This year, I met Ms. Peggy Sue—not in Maine, but on the far side of the planet: Borneo. Yes, that Borneo. Rainforests, orangutans, and humidity that could melt your eyebrows.

Peggy was on a cruise ship with 1,200 other adventurers. She was nearly ninety, with a delicate frame that would make my grandkids whisper, “How did they let her out of the nursing home without backup? She needs round-the-clock care, multiple nurses, and maybe even a helmet.”

I first saw Peggy Sue, as she conquered the climb down the ship’s gangplank and across the wharf, a small odyssey. By the time she climbed the five steps up to the tourist bus, she was spent. But once inside, under the mercy of air conditioning, she rallied. And thank heavens—because we had a one-hour ride into the jungle ahead of us.

When we arrived, her next challenge presented itself: a one-mile path through the rainforest to the “Birds of Paradise” sanctuary. Peggy stared at that path like it was the Appalachian Trail. She was halfway back into the bus when, out of nowhere, a young man built like Hercules showed up with a wheelchair, scooped her up like royalty, and whisked her up the trail like she was the Queen of Borneo.

An hour later, we reached a hilltop hut serving a buffet of tropical delights. But again—hurdles. The plates were too heavy, the food too far across the table, and the buffet line was a crowded stampede. Just as Peggy was about to accept defeat, a young waitress in a vibrant native dress floated over, filled the plate, and nestled her into a seat among her shipboard friends.

From birds of paradise to buffet paradise to Hindu heaven—we were treated to an outdoor theatrical spectacle featuring none other than a God: Lord Rama. Wearing full ceremonial garb, Rama battled villains with grand flourishes and fiery passion. And if the drama wasn’t enough to grab us, Rama proceeded to climb barefoot across flaming logs, casually kicking fireballs into the air like he was lighting the barbecue.

The Hindu God knew what he was doing and through it all—no nurse, no walker, no medic for Peggy or Rama. They stood tall. Well, she mostly sat. But you get the point.

She made it back to the ship’s 9:30 performance: a Buddy Holly tribute show. My kids wouldn’t know Buddy if he ran them over with a jukebox, but Peggy? She lit up. She knew Buddy. She sang along to “Great Balls of Fire,” “Peggy Sue,” and “That’ll Be the Day.” She was fifteen again—cheering, dancing, bursting with life.

Grainy black-and-white footage of the real Buddy played on screen, showing screaming teenage girls fainting in the aisles. It was a time machine—and I’m sure Peggy had been one of those girls sneaking out of the house to see him live before his tragic 1959 plane crash. Peggy didn’t just survive that era—she owned it.

And now, here she is: No nursing home, No intensive care. But living among tropical birds, flaming feet, and an inspiration to us, fellow cruise-ship seniors.

To me, Peggy Sue is a “Bird of Paradise.” Like those elders in Maine, she’s gracefully defying expectations of her juniors—floating through her own slice of Paradise.