The Buffet

On the ship I work in two restaurants. For breakfast and/or lunch, I bus tables or restock the beverage station in the Aloha Cafe, the main buffet on Deck 11. The windows offer views of the open sea, the breezy coasts, or the green mountains depending on where we're docked. 

The interior is rather plain with the exception of a few painted scenes of the typical Hawaiian images of tikis and surfboards. The dining room is divided into stations, most of which contain a server station where we store a cleaning bucket, trays, and bus tubs. There are usually three employees in each section, and we all amble about our confined areas slowly to kill as much time as possible. I take my time scrubbing the tables by the window so I can scan the waters for breaching humpback whales.

The guests often seem stuck in a trance as they examine their choices. I must maneuver around them because they don't see me; they focus solely on the food.  They are not like hunters who are hyper aware of their surroundings. Instead, they resemble zombies bumbling toward convienent nourishment.

My job is to remove the dirty plates and ready the table for the next person to sit down for his feast. Breakfast can be chaotic because the cruisers want to fill up and then get off the ship. Lunch is often deserted because most reasonable people would rather spend time snorkeling with sea turtles than observing large families and extra large people stuff themselves. 

Recently I was assigned the role of beverage maintenance. I push a cart stacked with racks of cheap glasses and German coffee cups, and I replenish the stations. When the juices run low, I grab a carton from the fridge and top it off. The giant coffee makers and espresso machines unload their grounds into a bucket below the counter.  I haul that into the kitchen and dump it into a designated container. 

Everything must be separated and deposited into the correct bins because we recycle everything we use on the ship. It is illegal to do otherwise as certain environmental regulations must be followed. The paper goes in the yellow bin, plastic in the blue, glass in the red. Food scraps get dumped into a channel in the dish pit. All the wasted pizza crusts are pulverized into fish food and dumped into the ocean. The water turns a murky brown, and the fish begin their feast. 

The seafood you eat could have eaten what you threw away, but this is the essence of recycling. It is not meant to sound disgusting, although undoubtedly many will be sickened to know this happens. Fish that feed off of table scraps are not as gross as cardboard-like ice cream cones that were manufactured rather than baked, but people eat those, too. 

Many of these ice cream cone loving people, in fact, take cruises, and they leave messes on tables, which I transport to the galley, where the dishwashers convert half-eaten burgers into brown flakes that alter an ecosystem.  When you consider all this mess, I'm baffled by the concept of fine dining. 

After my shift in the buffet, I stuff my face in the crew mess as I prepare for my evening shift in Skyline, a quasi-fine dining restaurant with a casual dress code. With my pressed shirt and tie, I serve the same cruisers I did in the buffet, but now I have to concern myself with the fork on the left and the knife on the right with the blades pointed in a certain direction. Why should we worry about all this orderly pretentiousness?Whatever food we don't eat, the animals will, and they don't give a damn about the silverware. 

Introduction to Ship Life

"This is going to be a shit show," Mark said.

We were stuffing ourselves with lunch from the crew mess while the cruise ship floated on the Pacific somewhere around the Hawaiian islands.

We were to report to work in an hour, and we expected to throw ourselves into chaos with no prior instructions except our own survival instincts. 

Life onboard the ship was extremely disorienting at first. Navigating my way through the narrow corridors seemed impossible. There are no windows because the crew sleeps below the water. The hallways are not always arranged in a neat square path. Every right turn looks the same as the last.

I had trouble finding my room the first day, and when I finally stumbled into the correct door, I soon realized I would have to make several adjustments to fit in here. The room was cramped and filled with the belongings of my two roommates. Both of them were very helpful with my questions, but they didn't seem to mind the mess or the lack of a clear path to my top bunk. 

I shuffled toward my armoire, where I stashed my clothes and books.  We have a desk that is rendered useless as it is covered with a tiny flat screen TV, a giant CD player, bottle caps, and miscellaneous junk. I cleared a landing pad and planted one foot on the desk to hoist myself upon my slim mattress. When I closed the curtains surrounding my bed, my tiny compartment felt as snug and dark as a cocoon. 

You are never alone on a ship. Over nine hundred people work here, and two of them sleep within five feet of me. We have one bunk bed, and a separate bed, which is a privileged commodity. In ship lingo, this coveted spot is called the Princess Bed, which is reserved for the most senior member within the room. We all have predesignated contracts, so when your roommate leaves, you bump up one spot until you become the king of your castle.

It's not entirely true to say you are never alone here. When you inhabit the square foot of space underneath the shower nozzle, you are very much alone. Two people could not comfortably fit inside the bathroom. I can spit in the sink from the shower, and I can wash my hands while I sit on the toilet. When I shower, the wet curtain clings to my flesh.

But all of these are trivial complaints not worth the worry. Ship life can be an overwhelming adjustment. We live and work in a confined space, where rumors and illness spread rampantly. In order to thrive here, you must be mentally and emotionally strong. The most formidable enemy onboard the ship is not sea sickness, not the 60 hour work weeks, and not the mediocre food in the cafeteria. The biggest peril is becoming a victim to negativity.

I've heard many of my coworkers call the ship a floating prison. Aside from complaining about the incompetence of managers and the laziness of fellow crew members, everyone talks about their release date as though we are spending time behind bars. But we volunteered for this. If you don't like where you are, then go somewhere else.

How else can I live and eat for free in Hawaii while saving money? Yes, the job will be grueling, and the days may seem long. Many times I will be completely clueless and lost, but I won't let that bother me. 

The ship may seem claustrophobic, and it may squeeze us to the point of bursting, if we allow that to happen. If life inside becomes too stressful, I can always go to the top deck to remind myself where I am. I'll throw myself into the muck and fight in the trenches and get my hands dirty with half-chewed buffet food. Then I'll look out the window and realize I have nothing to complain about.

Projections of Days to Come

When surrounded by pine trees and the frigid coastal waters of Maryland, I can barely fathom that I will be in Hawaii in a mere twenty-four hours.  I accepted this job three months ago in the end of September.  The job seemed so far away as though it were someone else’s dream I was hearing about.  I would be moving plates from the kitchen to a table, and I would just happen to be doing that on a giant boat encircling a tropical archipelago.  

The paperwork, medical examination, and drug test took months to be processed.  Then I was flown to Baltimore and then bussed to Piney Point, Maryland, where I stayed at a US Coast Guard facility to complete a course in basic safety training.  I learned how to board a life raft from the water, and I learned how to identify and extinguish separate classes of fires.  For another lesson, the class learned how to organize a panicking crowd. 

We used an empty floor of the hotel and turned off the lights in the hallway.  The scenario was a mock evacuation aboard a ship.  One group played the rescue team, and the rest pretended to be distraught passengers.  We hid inside bedrooms and waited for the rescue team to find us.  The instructors gave the passengers certain roles to play:  an intoxicated woman, a lost child, an egotistic man who wants to take control of the situation.  All of them were realistic challenges that could be found on a cruise. 

I was given the role of a 95 year old man.  I lay down on the bed and acted like I was asleep.  A fake alarm was blasting in the hallways, but I pretended not to hear it.  A member of the rescue team shook my leg and shouted:  “Are you okay, sir? Can you hear me?” I woke up, donned my glasses with shaking hands, and struggled to stand on wobbly legs.  I put my arm around the rescuer as he led me down the darkened corridor with the aid of his flashlight.  I dragged my feet down the stairs, and the rescuer guided me all the way to safety until I met another team member checking my name off from a clipboard. 

This exercise was meant to be fun as well as educational, but during these extravagant lessons I sometimes stopped and wondered:  What does this have to do with waiting tables?  The answer is nothing.  This endeavor has very little to do with the job.  I could wait tables anywhere on land, but I would not be excited as I am to work for this company.  My anticipation has everything to do with living on the ship and exploring the islands in between shifts. 

During my two weeks of training in Maryland, I have been constantly reminded that the lifestyle aboard the ship is an overwhelming adjustment at first.  I am scheduled to work every single day of my five month contract.  I will have several roommates in a tiny room.  If I get sick, I will be quarantined inside that room and will not be allowed to leave until I am completely healthy.  Meals will be brought to me as though I were in 24 hour lockdown in prison.  But this is not designed to be punishment.  We are like a miniature community aboard the ship.  Illness from the norovirus can spread quickly and produces nasty results from both orifices simultaneously.

There’s plenty to intimidate a first-timer.  Adapting to a new lifestyle is rarely seamless.  Conventional directions like left and right don’t work onboard a vessel.  I have to familiarize myself with basic nautical terms like starboard, port, and stern.  The bathroom is the head; the cafeteria is the mess.  I have no windows in my bedroom.  The house floats, and my head rests below the sea.

Sometimes I get nervous because I’m afraid to make mistakes, but more and more each day I gain confidence as I review the obstacles I have already overcome.  Then I console myself by saying that transporting dishes on an oval tray cannot really be that strenuous.  Even if I am overwhelmed by an incredible workload, I can get off the ship and run on the beach.  I can scout the seas for whales, turtles, dolphins, and sharks.  I can rent a bike for free and ride up to the mountaintop, or I could dive into the underwater craters. 

Everyone that I’ll be serving will be on vacation, a very expensive one at that.  The crew is reminded that we are here to work, but the company understands we have social lives and they want us to play.  There are plenty of toys onboard like free Rosetta Stone lessons, a DVD library, a free gym, a basketball court, and I’ve heard talks of creating a bowling league. 

I’ll have to treat the guests like royalty, but I don’t mind.  There are a few things in this world that can mute my protests.  One of them is money, and the other is the view outside the window.  I’ll perform just about any job to see Hawaii for free.  I’ll deliver the food and remove the dirty dishes without questioning my duty.  I’ll quiet the voice inside my head that often inquires:  What are you doing with that expensive college degree?  If moving plates around buys me a ticket to a tropical paradise, I’ll take it with no questions asked.   

The Social Network (300 Channels but Nothing's On)

In many ways, preparing to live and work on a ship is much like moving onto a college campus.  I will be away from home for months at a time.  I eat all my meals for free in a cafeteria (or the mess, as they are called on boats).  I will sleep not far away from the day’s toil.  My world will be a finite space with a manageable cast of characters.  I will roam the same passageways and constantly recognize familiar faces.  Ship-life is life reduced in scale. 

“The ship doesn’t change who you are,” the company trainer told the class, “Whatever you would do at home, you do on the ship.”

We were warned that the social life onboard the cruise vessel is reminiscent of high school days.  Gossip sneaks around, so do STDs.  My training class was advised to be skeptical of coworkers showing us too much attention upfront.  Recent hires are classified as fresh meat.  Clearly, there’s something everybody inevitably wants, and that’s why the ship gives out free condoms. 

During my training course, I’ve noticed a giddy energy emanating between my coworkers.  There are fifty of us divided into two classes.  And those two classes are divided further into subgroups.  We have all analyzed the entire cast by now, and so we surround ourselves with the company we prefer most. 

The facility is very isolated from entertaining distractions, and the weather has been cold enough to trap us inside.  When life is forced inward, it is easy to see how people get restless, especially if they’re incapable of entertaining themselves.  This is when the trouble, or the fun, begins.

When I decide how to entertain myself, I give myself options.  If I am hungry for a cheeseburger, I will research several restaurants before selecting one that will appease my appetite.  In a big city, there may be a Five Guys, a Red Robin, a Burgatory, and a plethora of local joints.  Back home, I usually have more than enough options to ensure my satisfaction.  But when my environment is significantly reduced in size, my options become more limited.  When my area shrinks, my tastes and/or expectations could change accordingly.

In my training class, there are roughly twenty-five women, many of whom I find pretty, but I haven’t found a woman of irresistible beauty.  The women, too, may feel this way about the men.  As we spend more time together in isolation with very little to do, there is no question of what will happen.  I have very few options.  I could choose not to act.  Or I could bump up those pretty girls to the status of irresistible beauty.

“When I first arrived, I didn’t find any of the women here extremely attractive,” I said to a male friend at the facility, “But now that a few days have gone by, I’m starting to notice people I didn’t really pay much attention to before.”

What makes a person attractive is a relative quality.  Beauty is measured by comparison.  Early in life we sift through what we like and what we don’t like.  I only know what I’ve been exposed to.  Some people think Pittsburgh is a big city because they’ve never seen New York.  In a similar way, one may believe one person is attractive because they haven’t seen what else is out there. 

When I am at home, my market seems unlimited, and the chances of finding an ideal partner or an ideal friend are promising because my environment houses an ample population.  But what do humans do when their choices are restricted?  I believe that we take the best of what’s around and make it work.  If the people in my training class were all the people I knew in the world, I would not refrain from romance because the women didn’t meet my standards.  Instead, I would lower my standards and rewrite my definition of beauty. 

Living with small, isolated populations helps me realize that this scenario is a microcosm of everyday life.  My hometown may be much larger and much more populated than a training facility or a cruise ship.  However even in a big city, I will only encounter a mere fraction of the human race, so I am still limited by the options presented to me.  We continue to keep what we like and disregard what we dislike, but these preferences are not entirely of our design.  The environment always plays a part in shaping us.  We choose to accept or reject what it has to offer.  When the environment doesn’t have much on the menu, we don’t get picky.    

Playing with Fire

We pretended to be firefighters donned in full regalia.  The thick, fire-proof jackets and spacious pants turned my classmates into indistinguishable brown rectangles.  The class lined up along the curb with air cylinders before us.  The technical term is a self-contained breathing apparatus, from which we would soon be gulping filtered air.

Instructors walked us through the process.  I checked the pressure gauge underneath the steel-gray bottle of pressurized oxygen and swung the harness over my back.  I donned a clear mask that covered my entire face and sucked air from tiny openings near my mouth.  Soon my breath created condensation.  With my gloved hands hovering before my plastic field of vision, I felt like a video game character who only displays his hands on the screen.  I plugged the regulator onto my mouthpiece and starting puffing Darth-Vader inhalations. 

For the next course, we were to extinguish a controlled fire using a heavy hose that required two people to handle.  The leader was to aim the nozzle, and the backup offered support by stabilizing the forceful water pressure.  Each person would perform both roles.  I originally chose Cody as my partner.  He is a sensible thinker, and his stoutness seemed a promising quality. 

Before we started, Cody chatted with Cheyenne, tall and very skinny, and Alexis, quite petite, and the girls worried their combined strength would prove an insufficient opponent to the mighty blast of the hose.  So they proposed a trade.  Cody paired with Cheyenne, and I partnered up with Alexis. 

The first pair wielded the hose and hunkered down in a defensive stance with knees bent and legs apart.  Before the team moved forward and approached the fire, the leader yelled, “Step!” and then shuffled ahead and dragged his back foot forward.  Flames leapt out from a metal grate that resembled a grill on the floor. 

As I stood in line and watched the others, I tried to break the ice with my partner.  She seemed nervous, so I attempted to comfort her. 

“Did you play any sports in high school?” I asked.  My voice squeezed out of the holes in my mask and somehow reached her ears.

“No.  Did you?” she asked, and I explained defensive drills during basketball practice.  We got down in a defensive stance and shuffled our feet as we yelled out “Slide! Slide! Slide!”  Yelling felt silly, but this taught us to communicate our movements. 

“Did you dance?” I asked her.

“I’ll be fine,” she said, picking up on my subconscious cues.  I suppose I was really asking her if she had any experience with this type of footwork.

“I have full confidence in you,” I said.  “I was just trying to ask relevant questions given the current situation.”

Fortunately, my plans to comfort her weren’t completely botched because she said she felt better knowing she had a good partner. 

We reattached our regulators and started sucking cylinder-air once more.  Alexis manned the nozzle, and I grabbed the hose near her armpit and I clutched the hose under my arm.  When the water gushed out, I leaned forward to counteract its force.  I pressed the hose hard against my side because I didn’t want to drop it.  I envisioned the hose flailing wildly as the firefighters dashed around like hunters simultaneously dodging a dangerous snake while trying to capture it. 

Alexis yelled out her movements, and somehow I could hear her over my audible gasps and the hissing stream.  She extinguished the fire, and then I took the reins.  I didn’t really process what was happening until much later when I was back in my civilian clothes.  I focused on my footwork and listened to my instructor and viewed the fire like it wasn’t real because this felt more like a videogame than real life.  I adjusted the stream from a solid burst to a spray resembling a violent shower and swept the base of the flames and the fire was gone. 

After exerting our insulated bodies, we took a break to moisten our parched lips and cool ourselves in the December air.  We operated a few fire distinguishers, carbon dioxide and dry chemical. 

Then we headed into a pitch black interior to simulate a search and rescue inside a darkened, smoky building.  Alexis and I were the last ones to start the course.  We waited on a bench in the foyer where I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face.  I took my mask off, but I still wore thick boots and padded gloves.  With the reduction of sight and touch, I began to feel slightly frustrated with my sensory deprivation, and I had only been sitting down for less than ten minutes in the dark.

“Did you ever see the episode where Spongebob gets trapped in Rock Bottom and his flashlight goes out when he’s standing in line?” I asked. 

“I haven’t seen it in a while, but I know what you’re talking about,” Alexis said.

“This isn’t your average, everyday darkness,” I quoted.  “This is... advanced darkness.”

A door opened, and the cone of flashlight cut through the blackness.  The instructor told me to crawl on my hands and knees with my right hand against the wall.  Alexis grabbed onto my left boot, and I shuffled forward and groped the wall and the space in front of me.  I announced when I hit a corner, and we moved left.  The wall snaked around an opening, and we followed its course.  I hit my head off an inconveniently placed pipe and wondered what kind of contractor would design such a maze of a living room. 

Then my hand struck a strange mass that felt like a heavy bean bag.  I could make out a vague sphere connected to a larger indeterminate shape, but I could not so easily detect the limbs.

“I think I found the dummy,” I said.

“You think it’s a dummy?” a stranger’s voice erupted from the nothingness. 

Was someone hiding in here?  Who was this ghost and why was he making me doubt my conclusion?  The sensitivity of my fingertips was rendered inert with my gargantuan gloves.  For all I knew, what I was feeling could be a couch.  Or I was unknowingly caressing this stranger’s thigh.

The lurking stranger turned on his flashlight to reveal a large dummy.  I was relieved to discover my target rather than to find myself crawling up the leg of a mustachioed firefighter inside a dark playground.  Since we weren’t really becoming firefighters, we only had to locate the dummy rather than dragging him out.  This was only a simulation, but pretending to be a fireman was more enjoyable than any video game I ever played.         

Abandon Ship

On the first day of class we watched videos of ships sinking.  A crew huddled near the edge as violent swells threatened to tip them overboard.  A man jumped into a giant rubber boat that resembles a bouncy playhouse.  Another man followed, but the rest were tugged down by the current and swallowed by the sea. 

“All of this is worst case scenario,” the instructor said.  He was a rescue swimmer for the U.S. Coast Guard who has seen his fair share of disasters.

He casually discussed the proper technique for jumping off of a deck sixty feet above the water.  But ideally one would not to reach this point.  If the ship were to collide with a coral reef and take on water, safety rafts are deployed, and up to twenty-four crew members hop into them before they are lowered into the water.  The Pride of America is not The Titanic; there is space enough for everyone to live.  Jack’s heroics are unnecessary when the company is properly prepared.

It was refreshing to be back in a classroom after a year away from college.  I was accustomed to discussing the literary voices of 20^th century authors or analyzing Hitchcock films—— all completely unnecessary information.  But now I was learning how to ration water and avoid attracting sharks should I find myself floating in a vast plain of blue under the heat of the Pacific sun.

This is the stuff of Survivorman.  The instructor advised us how the body operates while under a tremendous threat.  There are usually three options:  fight, flight, or panic.  Although panicking seems the most convenient choice, freaking out on a boat is not advisable.  We were told to breathe slowly and think about the situation.  Our fear will grant us adrenaline, which enable even the feeble to lift 200 pound escape vessels into the ocean.

“You don’t even have time to be afraid,” the instructor said.  “You’ll jump into the water, and the next minute you realize you’re sitting in a little boat, thinking, ‘How did I get here?’” 

Before setting foot on a boat, it is quite alarming to know you must first learn to abandon ship.  When moving into a new apartment, I do not immediately familiarize myself with an escape plan.  If my house catches on fire and I jump out of the window, will I break my leg?  I do not ask myself these questions.  I am much too concerned about how I will arrange the furniture. 

Those who are reading this may be worried, but it is wiser to be upfront about potential emergencies.  Our route in Hawaii, however, is much safer than traversing the open ocean.  The islands will never be too far away.  The Coast Guard patrols the waters, and there is an extremely slim chance of piracy.  Either way, the situation is out of my control.  I’m merely a waiter on a floating utopia.  Somebody else is steering the boat.

But everyone on board rehearses evacuation.  The class took a bus out to the local firefighting school that houses an indoor pool.  After donning our lifejackets, the instructor jumped into the water and demonstrated what we would be doing.

I waited in line while my classmates took their turns one by one.  When my turn came, I climbed onto a platform roughly five feet above the water.  I pinched my nose and crossed my arms and clutched the orange vest surrounding my neck.  I stepped off the platform, crossed my ankles, and submerged into the deep end. 

My buoyant life vest propelled me to the surface where a black safety raft was waiting.  The raft was covered by a dome-like roof that had openings on two ends. A flimsy ladder sagged under the boat uselessly.  I shot upward and grabbed the handhold and pulled myself inside the shelter.  My first thought was:  How did I get in here? And my second thought was:  I can’t believe I’m getting paid to do this. 

I had been observing my classmates wriggle inside the boat.  Many attempted to use the ladder, but the footholds were not sturdy enough.  Some tried to straddle the rubber lip with their legs and turn sideways into the vessel.  But this was mostly ineffective.  A few struggled to launch themselves into the boat while the rest of us watched tensely. 

Knowing I had an audience, I felt pressured to perform, so I strategized to shoot out of the water quickly and flop headfirst like a flying fish crash-landing on a boat.  I was nervous before the plunge, but I felt at home in the water.  I took advantage of Florida’s autumnal warmth and swam laps in preparation for the training course.  There were a few in the class, however, who could not swim, but they jumped in anyway.

Although they flailed with wild movements in this alien environment, they were bold enough to try.  They put their integrity on the line and entered an unfamiliar medium knowing they couldn’t move through it with confidence.  Everyone standing around the pool clapped for them in support of their efforts. 

A few days ago, we didn’t know each other, and we didn’t know what to expect of this training.  In some ways, we were all all diving into the unknown, unsure of how we would feel when we surfaced.  I still don’t know what tomorrow will bring, but I don’t mind the uncertainty.  Naturally, I anxiously anticipated this event beforehand even though I told myself worrying will do no good.  I walked back to my cozy hotel room with a thrilling dose of adrenaline. It turns out there was nothing to worry about.

First Impressions

I woke up when it was still dark outside.  My phone said it was 3:30 in the morning, and I had a flight to catch in three hours.  I had been unemployed for the last three months while staying at my aunt’s house in St. Petersburg, Florida, and I had grown accustomed to easy days when I woke up whenever I pleased.  But now this idyllic, carefree life would change by the end of the evening. 

My two previous adventures taught me not to be nervous for an abrupt transition.  I had come to crave fresh environments and sleeping in foreign beds, and I was excited to be traveling again.  Mostly by happenstance, I discovered a wanted ad for Norwegian Cruise Lines, and I filled out an application with little hope I would actually land the job, but somehow I did.  I will be working as an assistant waiter onboard the cruise-ship Pride of America which sails around the Hawaiian islands as long as I pass my training course.  Unlike my two previous blogs posted after my journey, this blog recounts my experiences as they happen. 

After a smooth landing in Baltimore, I spotted a man holding a sign that read Norwegian Cruise Lines.  A group of twenty-somethings with a smattering of middle-aged men greeted one another and exchanged small talk.  I scoped out the cast in solitude with my headphones on. 

In the past I have felt pressured to socialize aggressively from the start as though I were a speed-dater intent on making a strong first impression.  I had thrown myself into a fray of strangers in Ghana and in London where I tried to establish connections early before cliques solidified and didn’t require any fifth wheels.  But now I have accepted my preference of laying low at first and then gradually becoming more intimate with select individuals.

A bus collected us at the airport, and we escaped the city and burrowed into the arboreal remoteness until we reached a Coast Guard training facility in Piney Point, Maryland.  During the ride, I sat next to Cody, a stout college student from Michigan.  He is taking a year off from school to decide if he wants to study business or chemistry, so he has accepted a position onboard as a dishwasher.  I categorize him in the Cross-Roads file. 

 

I’m beginning to sense many of my fellow coworkers are using this opportunity to save money while thinking about what happens next in life.  We sign on to work seven days a week for five months straight.  After completing one tour, we get five weeks off, but many choose not to return to the ship, whereas others remain employed for years.  A question of duration puzzles all of us.   

I view this job as a free way to see Hawaii and also as a challenge to adapt to a highly regimented lifestyle.  Norwegian Cruise Lines has a massive list of rules and regulations, most of which are extremely reasonable for the safety of everyone onboard.  But I have my grievances with a few rules. 

Girls must wear their hair in buns while in public spheres.  They can wear one set of earrings, not two nor three.  Guys can have no facial hair, not even five o’clock shadow.  If you shave your head, you must maintain your sleek baldness.  Guests cannot see the process of regrowth.  We also cannot disclose our shoulders or calves near passengers.

Workers should appear professional, not as slobs, but when taken to extreme measures, rules reveal disgusting truths.  Since the ship only cruises around Hawaii, the workers must be U.S. citizens, but many of the people in my training class come from many ethnic backgrounds.  We have Filipinos, Puerto Ricans, and a woman of Columbian background.  They are forbidden to speak foreign languages in public places under the assumption that the eavesdropping guests will assume they’re being ridiculed. 

The numerous rules aggravated me because they affirmed that we are servants at the mercy of those with the money.  The stubble clinging to my chin is not going to fall into anyone’s salad, yet this is the explanation we are given.  The real reason that my immigrant coworkers must speak English is because many cruisers are old and likely to harbor racist thoughts.  Facial hair and immigrants worry diners, and this anxiety could risk the company money.  I must change my habits to assimilate to the standards of strangers richer than me.  Failure to comply with these rules results in termination.  If I want money, I am powerless and must concede.

     

I am overwhelmed by all the rules, and the observable demarcation between working class and leisure class seems like a recipe for frustration.  I am certainly not accustomed to a regimen with such meticulous scrutiny, especially since I spent the last three months largely doing what I pleased, when I pleased.  This strict lifestyle, which includes random room inspections, does not seem ideal long-term.  I typically shy away from militaristic neatness and outdated puritan policies, but I am curious to see Hawaii and to try living onboard a ship. 

So I’ll buy a razor and eliminate all the stubble.  I will quiet my frustrations for this unique opportunity and view this excursion as a challenge.  Perhaps the rules will cease to be an issue as they become common background noise.  I may shake my habit of being frequently late, but I do not wish to lose my laidback personality, in Hawaii of all places.