The People, Part II

Many people, including myself, have already declared we are only completing one contract. After our five months onboard, we will all return to our separate lives back home, or we will start anew. Having a set deadline can be nerve-wracking if you don't know how to begin the next chapter of your life.  We've all been stuck in jobs we one day hope to escape, but we don't always know when exactly we will pack up and leave. But with this line of work, I know the precise date when this portion of my life will end. Depending on how attached you've become to your friends and the job, this knowledge can be either frightening or liberating. 

With the exception of management and lifers, the turnover rate on ships is extremely high. Hardly anyone sticks around here too long, and this dramatically alters the general perception of friendships onboard. The epitome of these fleeting relationships is a fuck buddy. 

For five months, you can totally reinvent your persona without worrying about future consequences. This is precisely why many men shack up with women they have no intention of dating outside the ship. Even married men, whose spouses remain ignorant at home, have mistresses who are sometimes aware their boy-toy has a wife and kids. I attribute this casual attitude toward sex to be the combined result of a stressful environment and an enclosed, limited population. 

Just like in high school, everyone knows who's taken and who's single. Couples kiss in the crew mess and hold hands on Route 66, the main hallway everyone takes to get from their rooms to work. Nothing goes unnoticed here. Before I came onboard, the training specialist warned us newbies that we would be fresh meat. During my first week, I noticed a few women were being especially friendly with me. After they realized I wasn't going to sleep with them, they stopped talking to me.

If I wanted to engage in this hedonistic lifestyle, acquiring a friend with benefits requires little tact and even less effort. A friend explained to me how easy it is to score with whom he calls "ship sluts." One night he was acting as a wing man for his buddy in the crew bar when he spotted a bespectacled girl whose name he did not know. 

"Hey, Glasses," he said, and that was all it took. Less than an hour later, he took this anonymous girl back to his cabin for a loveless romp on the mattress. 

There are several problems with these encounters, however. The first threat is an STD or an unexpected pregnancy. The ship provides free condoms, but I still hear stories about infections and abortions. Even if you can avoid these perils, you cannot avoid the accompanying awkwardness of seeing the girl you just banged flirting with another guy in the crew mess. 

You can also find boyfriends and girlfriends, even husbands and wives on the ship. Relationships can form quickly because we all spend every day together.

Our unique circumstances bind us together as we weather the same hardships. Dating can be a great way to reduce stress and eliminate alienation as you fight the battle of cruise life together. Having a partner boosts your spirits and always gives you something to look forward to after work. 

But relationships can also smother you as you say good-bye to most of your friends. With limited free time, you work, eat, sleep, and explore with your partner because you know your days together may be numbered. As the days go by, the question looms:  what happens next?

Many of us live in different states or even countries separated by oceans. Will a couple reluctantly keep this job just so they can continue seeing each other? Or will they plan to move somewhere else together? 

Many of us are wanderers uncertain when we're going to settle down. Relationships can easily dissolve when they go long-distance. Or the alternative:  individual dreams are abandoned as a couple's future becomes entangled. Should I keep the girl, or hit the open road alone once more? I've asked myself this before, and I still don't have the answer.

I became involved with a woman from California while we were volunteering in Ghana. We spent every day together and overcame the same struggles as a team, so our bond was quick and intense. We exchanged intimate thoughts while we shared a life-altering experience, but I wondered how we would fare with the quiet and the normalcy of home life. 

We made tentative plans to continue the relationship back home in the States. We promised to keep in touch until we had enough money to plan a visit. When I returned home, we spoke often in the beginning, but the phone calls became less frequent and the conversations became less animated. I could hear her waning interest in her voice. My hesitation was growing as I began to question the likelihood of success. Was I deluding myself that we could make this work even though we lived on opposite ends of the country? Did I abandon my rational thoughts as I became intoxicated with the fantasy that I had found the one?

Maybe we only needed each other to deal with a foreign environment. Together we were less vulnerable. When we both returned to our separate lives, we didn't  need each other to handle our ordinary routines. Although our connection at the time seemed amplified, I was beginning  to think that our encounter was only meant to be brief. 

My trip to Ghana was the first time I traveled outside the U.S. Back then I didn't question my motivations for traveling, but now I ask myself what it is I'm searching for. Am I wandering around to appease my curiosity? Or am I subconsciously driven to find an ideal place to settle down? Or am I looking for someone?

With less than three weeks left on my contract, I find myself getting involved with a woman I greatly admire, but I hesitate to become too attached because I'm uncertain if I will ever see her again. It's natural to back off in this situation in order to avoid a painful ending that may seem inevitable. 

But when I'm under this spell, I note how rare it is find someone with whom you share a real connection. Our meeting in the first place was highly improbable, and  this very unlikelihood makes me want to take this chance again. Maybe this is foolish, but I would rather rush onward with full force only to crash and burn later.

I don't want to take the conservative route and wince at the pain that may never arrive. Even if I fail, I want to look back and say that I tried, and I'm grateful for the time we briefly shared. It was better than doing nothing because we were too afraid to take that risk.

Although I initially wished to remain antisocial and avoid attachments, I'm glad I abandoned this plan. Friends on the ship need each other. We pick each other up when we're suffering cabin fever or we're exhausted from the physical demands of our jobs. The friends I've made have enriched my experience and without them I would have jumped ship a while ago.

I've already said goodbye to a few friends whose faces I miss seeing in the hallways. I used to get so excited to go to work so I could goof around with them, but now they're at home trying to forget about this place or contemplating their return. 

Part of me wants to go home, and that part is my legs. The rest of me will miss all the people I've grown close to. For a very short fraction of our lives, we are all here in the space speck on the globe, but very soon I will likely never see these people ever again. You can never count on anyone sticking around too long.  Eventually we all move along to collide with the next batch of strangers until we bump into someone we hope will be a permanent home. For the time being, temporary friendships have their benefits, even when they're played out as memories.

The People, Part I

During my first few weeks onboard the cruise ship, the workers intimidated me. In the hallways hardly anyone said hello or even acknowledged my existence. When I was forced to cooperate with these strangers in cramped sidestands at work, I was inundated with their grumpy outlooks and aggressive behavior.

I recall one day when I was waiting in an extremely long line for the chef's special. I was standing next to a woman prone to explosive outbursts. The slightest inconvenience set her off. Normally, I would give this woman a wide berth as I would an irritable junkyard dog with especially sharp teeth. But on that day, the kitchen was packed, and, as a result, I lightly grazed the woman's hip with the edge of my tray. The tap was barely perceptible, but the force was enough to incur her wrath.

"Say excuse me when you bump into someone," the she-devil said. 

In the beginning of my contract, I recoiled at these threats and apologized profusely. I was careful not to upset anyone because I felt uncomfortable being yelled at by my peers. After a few weeks had passed and I was no longer the new guy, I told myself I didn't have to take shit from anyone, especially from those who held the same position as me.

A tiny girl once yanked on my tie while I was waiting for appetizers. For the most part she was joking around, but I heard from fellow coworkers she was often extremely rude. A friend of mine once rejoiced when he saw her crying because he hated her so much. 

Upon hearing this, I realized these miserable pessimists were purposefully being nasty to compensate for their inferiority in size, skill, work ethic, and intelligence. This environment produces hardened individuals who are likely to push you out of the way because they ignorantly believe that, in a packed restaurant, they are the only ones in a hurry. The time-sensitive nature of this business combined with 140 consecutive eight-hour workdays leaves little room for manners.

I arrived on the ship with a group of friends I met during training at Piney Point, Maryland. Initially, I stuck close with them in the crew mess. I viewed the other hordes of strangers with disdain. I assumed many of the laborers were mindless cattle wasting their lives as wage-slaves. As each day passed, I gained more confidence and branched outward from my start-up entourage. There were many sub-sects I previously viewed as impenetrable, but I soon found myself infiltrating their ranks.

Ships harbor an extremely diverse population organized into cliques. The restaurant department is the largest. Waiters hang out with other waiters. Occasionally, a cook or pastry cook is included. Deck hands are easily identified by their blue jumpsuits. The engine workers often sport thick beards and filthy uniforms. I have never spoken to a person in the engine department, but I have befriended an Seafarer's International Union (SIU) apprentice. 

The apprentices are seamen and women in training. They work one month in each department:  restaurant, deck, and engine. After all three samplings, they head back to school for further training before they work on massive cargo ships sailing around the world. I can differentiate between starboard and port, but the SIU apprentices, deckhands, and engine workers know much more specific nautical terms, and they are often inked with tattoos that reflect this knowledge.

My SIU friend expressed his anxiety securing the mooring lines when the ship docks. These ropes are extremely thick and super taut. If not secured properly, the tensile strength is enough to fling the rope like a whip. They have been known to cut people in half. These men and women are the true sailors who keep the ship running. As a man who can barely start a lawn mower, I have developed a great amount of respect for them.

The most coveted group of all, however, is the Filipino Mafia. Filipinos dominate the cruise industry from the working class level, and this ship is no different. The Mafia possesses valueable inside secrets, and they often hold the best positions that receive the highest pay with very little responsibility. If you make connections with the Mafia, your life will be much easier.

Before I delve into the specifics, allow me to define the parameters of the Filipino Mafia. This group is not limited to natives of the Philippines, but the Mafia also includes those from Guam and the Mariana Islands as they are also fluent in the Filipino language. 

There are several restaurants on the ship:  two complimentary dining rooms, the buffet, a diner, a bar and grill, and five specialty restaurants. A few eateries share the same kitchen, but all of the kitchens are only separated by a few staircases. When supplies run low in one restaurant, it is inevitable that workers will steal them from another venue. Managers are aware of this common thievery, so they lock up such valuables as carts and coffee pitcher lids. 

If you can't find what you're looking for, make friends with a Filipino, and he'll give you what you need. I've seen Filipinos hide bread and saucers in unmarked cabinets and random closets so that no one else uses them. This practice, of course, is not allowed because we are encouraged to share especially when we are busy, but having a secret stash is very convenient when supplies become nearly impossible to find.

My front waiter is from Mariana Pacific, and she speaks Filipino and stashes bread illegally. The two practically go hand in hand on the ship. All the Filipinos babble in their foreign tongue, even though we are only to use English in guest areas. But, again, this does not deter the Filipinos. They don't have to follow the rules because they make the rules. The managers, like policemen in Sicily, hold little sway over them. Everyone secretly knows who's in control.

In my restaurant, we have a general manager, an extremely organized and efficient woman who has been in this business for many years. And we also have a quasi assistant "manager" who makes sure the operation is running smoothly.  This man, let's call him Roger, is from Guam. Although his name tag says he is only a waiter, Roger is the don of the Mafia. He is the Godfather.

Roger is an extremely affable fellow who has figured out how to beat the system. Managers have asked him several times to become an assistant manager, but he has refused each time because he works fewer hours yet makes more money as a waiter. Here's the kicker: he never waits on tables anyways; he manages the waiters.

If you need keys to unlock the janitorial closet, you find Roger. At the end of the night, Roger assigns sidework based on how early your section closes and how many hours you've already worked this week.  Before you leave, you must check out with Roger. Only when he approves can you go home. This man possesses a lot of power, and, if you befriend him, he can pull some strings for you.

 

There's a secret spot in the restaurant where there are no cameras, and a closed door conceals you from the prying  eyes of the manager. This place is called Cafe Coco, a tiny menu closet where I have been spending the majority of my evenings. After making connections with both the hosts and the Mafia, I have managed to secure an extremely easy schedule that entails very little guest interaction and virtually zero effort. 

This is how it works:  Roger closes your section early. It's seven o'clock, and you have no tables because the host is your buddy and he's purposefully slamming people because he's slightly sadistic. The difficulty of your night is often dependent upon how favorably you are looked upon by those in power. 

The host sends me to the closet with a giant stack of menus to change out the inserts. I lock the door behind me, and immediately the clatter and chatter of the dining room ceases. I roll up my sleeves and turn on some music. Occasionally, I feast upon a three-course meal delivered by a network of smugglers. A member of the Mafia or a risk-taking individual is willing to order any appetizer, entree, or dessert under the pretense that this food is for the guests. This is a beneficial loophole of not ringing in orders into a computerized system. When the managers aren't looking, this person sneaks into the closet and drops off the food. 

Roger knows what's going on behind closed doors because he is guilty of this himself. Many of the workers are unsatisfied with the food in the crew mess. The menu can often be disappointing and bland, so many people sneak food from the main galley. We are not permitted to eat the food prepared for the guests unless they serve the leftovers for a late night snack. 

The guests' food is tantalizingly better than ours. The difference in quality leads many waiters to hide beef loin inside cupboards of sidestands. If you see a waiter ducking down with a fork in his hand, he is probably scarfing down his pilfered dinner in secrecy. This practice is a petty misdemeanor compared to a Filipino party in Roger's room. I've heard tales of Filipinos eating filet mignon while the rest of us swallow the commoner's grub.

As I spent more and more time with my shipmates, I began to realize my first impressions were wrong. I formed strong bonds with certain friends as we got to know one another over meals and excursions on the islands. The experience began to feel less like work and more like a giant sleepover. 

In the back of mind, however, I know that friendships here have limitations that one doesn't always encounter on land.  Friendships form quickly, but they can end just as soon. Crew members are always coming and going, so one must be careful not to get too attached. Given our demanding circumstances, we crave comfort and inevitably we reach out to one another...