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.