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.