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.