(Kind of) Living in Hawaii

Every Friday the ship sailed by the Napoli Coast of the island Kauai.  This was designed as a romantic sendoff, Hawaii’s grand finale before the cruise ended in Honolulu.  The guests camped out near windows and fiendishly coveted their front row seats to witness the splendor of bountiful vegetation and tectonic plates that smashed together millions of years ago.  The Napoli Coast is considered one of the most beautiful places on Earth.  

The view certainly never gets old.  I remember staring at the verdant cliffs in wonder for the first time.  The combination of isolated beaches, the luscious greenery, and the red-tinged soil made the coastline seem other-worldly.  This place was more than just a photo-op on our itinerary.  It wasn’t until I began learning the history of the Hawaiian Islands that I was able to truly appreciate the view out the window.

Before I came to Hawaii, I was completely ignorant of my geography.  I assumed Honolulu was on the biggest island, and I thought Pearl Harbor was in the middle of nowhere.  Honolulu, it turns out, is on the island of Oahu, and Pearl Harbor is roughly a fifteen minute drive from the most populated city in the state.  If I had been any more ignorant to the truth, I could have convinced myself there were bridges between the islands.  I don’t like to appear stupid, so I bought some books and brushed up on my Hawaiian history. 

Hawaii, the most isolated chain of islands in the world, was first discovered by Polynesians rowing double-hulled canoes.  They navigated the seas by observing the stars, the wind, and the ocean currents.  This practice is called wayfinding, a skill that takes years to master and is handed down through the generations. 

By 1200, Polynesians from Tahiti and the Marquesas settled all the habitable islands of Hawaii.  There are four major islands:  Oahu, Maui, Kauai, and Hawaii (aka the Big Island), and four smaller islands not as developed:  Molokai, Kahoolawe, Lanai, and Niihau.  Each island established its own kingdom.  The land was divvied up amongst the islanders like slices of pie evenly distributed at a family dinner.  Every district got a piece of the inland mountains, fertile valleys, and a crescent of the coast. 

Chiefs were appointed to monitor resources to ensure that the farming and fishing were coming along swimmingly.  Due to the extreme isolation of these islands, the natives had to be self-sufficient in order to sustain their growing population.  In addition to the land regulations, this highly-stratified society imposed a strict set of rules called the kapu system. 

These restrictions were dictated by spiritual powers, and these gods were oddly controlling.  Men and women were not allowed to eat together.  Even if the ladies were dining solo, they were prohibited from eating bananas.  

Two years after the signing of the Declaration of Independence, a British explorer named Captain James cook sailed to the west coast of Kauai.  White people discovered the islands, and they began leaking all of its secrets.

A few years after George Washington and his troops defeated the British in the American Revolution, a fierce Hawaiian warrior named Kamehameha was busy with his own revolution.  He was uniting the islands under one kingdom, and he would soon wear the crown. 

The American forefathers were wearing powdered wigs and transporting the capital from Philly to D.C. by horse and buggy around the time when Hawaiians were paddling war canoes and killing each other with spears.  These two worlds seemed leagues apart, but soon they would collide.  Hawaiian history would become American history. 

Before Hawaii became a territory-turned-state, it was its own country for eighty-eight years.  Once this tiny archipelago became internationally recognized, the usual barrage of problems ensued.  Europeans and Americans visited, and they brought syphilis and other infectious diseases with them.  Hawaii lucked out during the major plagues that ransacked Europe, so the natives’ immune systems were unprepared for an onslaught of foreign microbes.  The population was decimated.

Then the Asians arrived:  the Chinese, Japanese, and Koreans.  In order to replenish the working classes, foreigners were recruited to work in the first sugar plantations that began sprouting up as the old land customs faded.  A large portion of Hawaiian land is used for farming, but you don’t see this advertised on postcards.  The popular image of Hawaii——pristine beaches, hula dancers, palm trees——is a marketing ploy.  My first mental visualization of Hawaii was created by advertisers, the same mind-benders responsible for those commercials that persuade viewers that Michigan has more to offer than seven-month winters and rampant unemployment.

There are many truths to Hawaii that not many people talk about because nobody wants to darken this idyllic paradise.  From the 1860s to the 1960s, Molokai was home to a controversial leper colony.  Due to the huge death tolls following the introduction of Western diseases, Hawaiians grew excessively cautious about quarantining anybody suspected of having leprosy.  Police officers were ordered to hunt down suspected individuals and ship them off to the island of Molokai.  Isolation was mandatory.  Children were torn from their families.  Many of them spent the rest of their lives in exile.

Kahoolawe is another island that doesn’t align with this utopic vision of Hawaii.  During World War II the American military used Kahoolawe, a small uninhabited island, as target practice.  They dropped bombs and detonated TNT to polish their skills for the Korean and Vietnam Wars.  Twenty five years ago, the military finally stopped this practice largely due to the efforts of protesters.  Now, groups are attempting to restore the land for spiritual use, but you still have to watch your step because there may be active mines. 

Military presence is the biggest reason that Hawaii is an American state.  Before the Second World War, Japan was eager to expand its territory because the most densely populated country in the world could not support itself on its limited resources.  After Japan seized Korea and Manchuria, the United States worried that the Japanese would head east across the Pacific in search of bountiful lands.  After the Americans stole the Philippines and Guam from the Spanish, who, in turn, stole those lands from the natives, the United States established a critical naval base in the middle of the Pacific Ocean at Pearl Harbor.

In the 1890s, Congress asked Grover Cleveland to annex Hawaii, but he was set against it because he had a great deal of respect for the Hawaiian people.  He thought his country had gone too far with its policy of Manifest Destiny.  We already had a nation that stretched from sea to shining sea.  If we greedily collect other lands, Cleveland believed, this practice would come back to bite us.  The next president, William McKinley, did not share these sentiments.  He scooped up the Philippines, Guam, Puerto Rico, and Hawaii in a single year.  As a result of the annexation, Hawaii’s last monarch, Queen Liliuokalani, was overthrown and imprisoned in her own home.  The American flag was raised. 

That’s how we came to be here on a cruise ship called The Pride of America sailing in our home territory in a land we seized illegally for militaristic and economic profit.  I’m amazed at the progression from Polynesians rowing wooden canoes to a bulky hunk of steel shuttling honeymooners and senior citizens on a vacation of convenience.  When I stare at wonder at the Napoli Coast, I see the natural beauty, but I also consider the history of these islands. 

This is the land where men threw spears at each other, where women couldn’t eat bananas because of a taboo system, where men danced with fire, where lepers hid in the forests to avoid detection, where immigrants toiled in the cane fields, where American planes dropped explosives, and where Steven Spielberg filmed Jurassic Park.  More than a century ago, an American politician pointed to this tiny speck on the map and said, “This land could be useful.” Now here we are, looking out the window in an air-conditioned room.       

Why did the Polynesians search for these islands over a thousand years ago?  I don’t know the answer, but I can guarantee they weren’t thinking, “Somewhere beyond the sea lies an ideal location for a K-Mart, where we can sell cheap leis and Aloha shirts.”  As absurd as this scenario seems, this is, in fact, the evolution that humans have taken.  We certainly have strayed far from our original intentions.

There are Hawaiians out there who are still protesting American statehood.  I’ve ridden my bike up into the West Maui Mountains where I saw a beat-up sign declaring hope for a future independent Hawaii.  On this sign was the word haole, which means outsider or white person.  The entire time I worked and (kind of) lived in Hawaii, I was always aware that I was a haole, a mere visitor. 

I would feel uncomfortable living in Hawaii because I don’t think we Americans belong here.  The land belongs to the natives, but now they act as generous hosts to all these paying customers.  They work as valets, stateroom stewards, and waitresses at high-rise hotels and resorts that sprung up out of the taro fields.  They resuscitate ancient rituals during expensive luaus and then drive home on American highways.  

What if another country invaded the United States, kicked President Obama out of the White House, instated a foreign leader, and then told the American people to shut up and dance?  That’s exactly what the country did to the Hawaiians, and we’re still paying to see the show.

Dating on a Cruise Ship

When I informed my uncle about the job I got on the cruise ship, he said this would be a ripe opportunity to meet a girl.  I considered this:  there was a finite population of females within a confined space.  Surely I would bump into someone who struck my fancy, and when I did we’d already have so much in common.  It takes a particular adventurous spirit to accept a job on a cruise ship in Hawaii for a five month contract.  I was already increasing my chances of finding a like-minded individual who shares similar dreams.  Before I set foot on the vessel, I was confident I would find my ideal girlfriend.

During my first week onboard, however, I quickly changed my mind.  I vowed not to get involved with anyone.  First of all, there was no time.  I had to work twelve hours every day.  I barely had enough time to eat breakfast or get enough sleep at night.  I couldn’t imagine worrying about someone else in addition to myself. 

So I closed myself off; I was in survival mode.  I woke up with enough time to eat breakfast before my shift.  During meals I sat by myself and read a book while I ate.

I never hung out with anybody.  Instead, I bought a fold-up bike and went for long rides by myself.  After work, I gobbled up my usual snack of two peanut butter and honey sandwiches with two glasses of milk and I went straight to bed. 

I was scoping the place out before I got comfortable.  Who are these people? I asked myself.  Who’s worth knowing?  I prefer to keep a small circle of friends.  There’s a very particular way I like to socialize.  I don’t care for much gossip, small talk, and pessimism.  I stay away from all that.  Part of me thought half of my shipmates were uneducated and slightly uncivilized, but the other half of me was afraid to say that out loud.  What was I getting myself into here? Was I in the wrong place?  Everyone kept warning us new hires to be careful about the company we keep.  The training specialist said that, and even the engineer echoed that sentiment.  I took their advice, but, still, I poked my head out and asked questions.

My roommate was a twenty-something, laid-back Californian who always called me dude.  He had a girlfriend who was prone to use similar diction.  They were together all the time lying on my roommate’s bed.  She would come over during the day and take a nap, or they’d watch That 70’s Show together.  They’d go out to eat or go shopping together when we were in port.  Every night, without fail, she’d sleep over, and sometimes I’d hear them making noises even though they were clearly trying not to.  They were inseparable.

The girlfriend said being in a relationship was helpful to deal with the stress of ship life.  I surmised that she was referring to the sex, but she also assured me that bonds between two people on the ship form very quickly and strongly because we are enduring the same struggle.  We are all fighting the same fight and living in rooms without windows.  Life can be lackluster, so we seek to discover new worlds within each other.

My roommate would often hit up the bar at night, and before he left he would ask me if I was going out.  With a book in my hand, I would always reply in the negative.  “I want to get my rest,” I would say.  Or:  “I have to get up early.”  My roommate never seemed satisfied with my responsible demeanor, so he would goad me into leading a more scandalous existence. 

“If you don’t go out in the beginning of your contract,” he said to me, “Then you’ll never go out.”

“Going out isn’t really my thing,” I said. 

“You don’t want to get yourself a nice ship slut?  It’s so easy, dude.”

“No, not really,” I said.  “That doesn’t appeal to me.”

I wasn’t looking for an empty sexual encounter.  I noticed a few attractive girls at work, but I could never bring myself to initiate a one-night stand.  I wanted to use this experience to build my character and become a man of integrity.  Having a casual affair didn’t seem like the right way to achieve my goal, so I never entertained the thought.

But still there was a quiet voice rising inside me.  After the usual barrage of get-to-know-you questions, I would ask my coworkers, “What do you think about dating on the ship?” I’m beginning to realize that when I’m afraid to admit the truth to myself, I seek confirmation from others to verify my normalcy.  In other words, I still wanted to find a girlfriend, even though I knew it was a bad idea.  But maybe a few respectful individuals could convince me to go against my better judgment.

Most people came up with similar answers.  Dating someone would be fun, distracting, or suffocating.  There were no casual serious relationships.  Couples were always together, holding hands on Route 66 or kissing in the crew mess.  And what about the guests?  Nearly everyone sailing on the ship was on their honeymoon or celebrating their 40^th anniversary.  I’ve been waiting on couples for a few years, and I’ve listened to the stories of how they met.  Before every story begins, the end is inconceivable.  Every couple probably thinks at some point that the odds are against them, yet they fall in love anyway. Forty years later, this same couple is sharing a meal on a cruise ship sailing around the Hawaiian Islands telling a young man how they overcame those odds. 

For a while now, I’ve been on the outside looking in.  Relationships seemed like things that happened to other people, as though I was somehow immune.  With roughly a month left on my contract, I decided it was time to be social, and my timing couldn’t have been worse (or better).  Surely it would be foolish to get involved with a girl when I would be leaving in five weeks, especially considering it is highly likely the girl will live far from my hometown.  Despite the protests from my rational mind, that is precisely what happened, but I’m glad I ignored my voice of reason.

What ensues is largely due to a combination of luck, head-over-heels infatuation, and a determination to maintain the union.  I’m not one to believe in fate.  I prefer to think that your course in life is mostly random and unpredictable, but along the way a rare opportunity may fall in your lap.  You might not have this chance again, so you must seize it immediately.

During a particular Tuesday afternoon, I happened to be eating lunch in the crew mess in my usual spot with this week’s book in front of my face.  I finished my meal and promptly proceeded toward the dish pit to discard my trash.  Along the way, I heard a voice calling my name.  I turned around.  A beautiful woman with blond hair, let’s call her Erica, was seeking my attention. 

“What are you doing today?” she asked me.

The question caught me by surprise.  I was planning to ride my bike into Hilo because I wanted to exchange this novel I bought at a secondhand bookstore.  A few weeks earlier, the owner of the bookshop persuaded me into buying Hotel Honolulu by Paul Theroux, but I found the story to be dreadfully boring and distastefully smutty.  I wanted to see if the owner would allow me to swap that trashy book for another one I had my eye on. 

I summarized my plans to Erica but neglected to mention I would be riding my bike.

“Do you mind if I tag along?” she asked. 

Usually I got off the ship by myself because I could leave whenever I wanted, and I could go as far as I wanted to go.  I never faced this question before, but I relented.  We agreed to meet at the gangway and then proceed to the Hoppa-On, Hoppa-Off Bus into town.  When I returned to my room to retrieve the necessary identification to disembark the ship, I wondered about Erica’s intentions.  She was obviously very friendly.  In the crew mess, she would stop and talk to nearly everyone.  Was she merely being friendly with me? 

I recalled a conversation we shared in the crew mess when I learned that she studied photography, and I told her about my travels.  I also asked her what room temperature she prefers, and she said somewhere around sixty-eight degrees.  That, too, is my ideal temperature, I remarked.  Then I jokingly suggested we should get married because we’ve covered everything important about co-existing.  Before we parted, she told me she could talk to me all day.

We took the bus into Hilo, and we never ran out of things to say.  In the bookshop, she browsed on her own, clearly searching for a specific genre.  I picked up a book called Adrift, a true story of a man floating across the Atlantic Ocean on a life raft for over two months.  I was intrigued by this woman who boldly tagged along on my trip, and now here she was interested in the same books as I was.  After we left the bookstore, she bought me a coffee because I didn’t have any cash and we stopped at a café that didn’t accept credit cards.  Then I told her about the kind of place I’d like to live in the future, and I was already forming plans to see her tomorrow. 

We hung out briefly for the next few days until the ship sailed to Honolulu, and she called my room to pick my brain about what there was to do there.  We decided to take a tour of the Iolani Palace.  We had to wear booties over our shoes so we wouldn’t get the original carpet dirty.  Erica took her camera, and I watched her in awe as she took pictures of the ornate interiors.  I have a great amount of respect for anyone who’s passionate about a hobby, especially an artistic hobby.  The whole point of being social is to exchange ideas and transform each other’s viewpoints.  This girl seemed to have the potential to change the way I looked at the world.

The next day on Maui, she won me over.  We decided to go for a hike in Iao Valley.  She led me past the viewpoint of the needle and ducked under a fence and trotted past the sign that warned us not to go in the very direction she was heading.  I had no choice but to follow her.  She wasn’t afraid to step in the mud or climb up a tree.  She even wore a ballcap to keep the hair out of her eyes.  This girl is a keeper, I told myself, and I’d be a fool not to snatch her up. 

If I was going to start something, then I had to prepare myself to go all in.  I didn’t want some half-assed fling that will end as a fading memory, so I decided to hold her hand on the way back.  She let go to take pictures of the Portuguese Gardens, and when she finished she grabbed my hand.  I knew that whatever I was feeling, there was a good chance she was feeling it, too.

I decided to be very upfront with her about my intentions.  I had been in a similar situation before.  I became attached to someone in a faraway land, and we both had separate flights to catch at the end of the month.  I learned that you try to protect yourself from the inevitable pain, but once you become detached you are giving up on the relationship.  If you want to succeed, you have to charge ahead despite knowing you must endure a sorrowful goodbye.

This time around I wasn’t going to hold anything back.  I was leaving in four weeks.  Whatever I had to say I had to say it now.  We had to seize every opportunity that arose.  We had to throw ourselves completely into the present moment so that our bond would prove strong enough to withstand the distance that would separate us in the future.  For the remainder of my contract, I spent as much time as I could with her.  I slept less.  I ate my meals faster so I could steal a few more minutes with her before work.  I didn’t read nearly as many books as I did when I was anti-social.  But I didn’t care.  My roommate’s girlfriend was right:  you form strong bonds here, and fast.

When we weren’t together, I contemplated ways we could remain together after we both left the ship.  I live in Florida, and she lives in South Carolina.  For the last year, I’ve been planning a three-month hike in the wilderness, and she’s got nine weeks of vacation to figure out her next move.  Ever since I graduated from college, I always knew what my next step would be.  I created a three year plan that would allow me to build my resume and travel.  I did not factor a girl in that plan.  I just figured I’d meet someone along the way with the hope we could accommodate each other.  There is no smooth progression of upward mobility. 

If I were to live in a perfect world, I would obtain my dream job at an early age, pay off my college loans, rapidly accumulate enough money for a house, and then land the girl of my dreams so we could travel the world together.  The girl, of course, would have her life completely figured out by the time she met me.  Together, we would be 100% prepared to drop everything we were doing to merge into a new life. 

Nobody has that kind of luck. 

We come up with vague plans and lavish wishes, and we make peace with how far we’ve veered from our original course.  Most of us will inhabit futures we never imagined.  We figure everything out until someone new enters the equation and shakes everything up.  Priorities become entangled, and possible futures are thrown out the window as new expectations form.  When you’re at the beginning of your journey, it’s difficult to know with any certainty where you will end up.  I never expected to work on a cruise ship in Hawaii, and I never imagined meeting a girl on that very same cruise ship.  There’s no handbook that answers the questions of what happens next.  We can only adapt and hope we can beat the odds.

The Hours

There’s a game we like to play on the cruise ship, and I call this game The Hours.  Waiters working at sea play by a completely different set of rules than those do on land.  When I waited tables in Pittsburgh, the only money I earned was from tips, but money is rarely exchanged on the cruise ship in the complimentary dining rooms.  The passengers don’t tip like they would at home, and this drastically alters one’s strategy to maximize profit.  This is precisely why we play the hours.  I could easily equate this game to milking the clock, but this operation is more complex than secretly stealing company time.  To understand how waiters at sea capitalize on their earnings, I should first explain the dynamics of a typical establishment.

If you are a server in a normal restaurant in America that does not float on water, your income depends largely on the number of people who sit in your section and the tipping habits of those particular individuals.  The rest of your money depends on luck and your performance.  When I worked at the Melting Pot in Pittsburgh, there were many factors out of my control that directly affected my nightly profits.  If the weather was inclement or the Steelers were playing a home game, then fewer people were coming into the restaurant.  The effectiveness of my manager’s marketing strategy determined if new customers would try the restaurant, and the service in general determined if old customers would return. 

The location of our restaurant in Pittsburgh, historically a working-class town, and the accompanying demographics also played a huge role with tipping.  Would I get some 10%ers in my section?  Or would I get a classy two-top with proper etiquette?  So much of the stress involved in this business is due to the unpredictability of your night.  You never know how many people are going to walk through those doors, and you don’t know what type of person is going to sit in your section.  In order to hedge your bets, you hustle, smile, put on a show, and turn the tables as quickly as you can.  The more tables you get in one night, the more money you walk home with.  I made $2.83 per hour when I worked in Pittsburgh, and my meager wage usually covered my taxes.  My entire income was dependent upon tips from strangers.  You could never count on a steady paycheck because there are too many variables. 

The opposite is true on the cruise ships.  Hawaii has always been a popular destination that requires little advertisement to entice people all over the world to seek a superior climate.  Each week, roughly 2,000 passengers spend their vacation onboard the vessel.  Usually we sail around dinner time, so there is nowhere for our clientele to go.  We have them trapped on our ship, and inevitably they flood our restaurants.

On a normal night, 700 to 1,000 guests could dine at Skyline.  If I start work at five o’clock, my section is going to fill up fast.  Usually I have four tables with a capacity for sixteen to twenty guests.  It was quite normal for me to walk into work and be greeted with a full section.  Some guests would already have set their menus aside, indicating they’ve made their decisions before I had a chance to tie my apron.  There is no warm-up, just an abrupt wake-up call.  When the ship is packed, there is no stopping until the doors close at 9:30, but there is no choice but to keep moving. 

So you run back and forth from the galley to the dining room several times to get those people out of your restaurant as quickly as possible.  They finish up their cheesecakes and Key lime pies, and then they shuffle away to catch the 7:00 show.  As soon as you reset your tables, another twenty hungry guests sit down and ask you the same questions the previous guests just finished asking. 

The race begins again.  You retrieve the spring rolls.  You search two dish-pits for a single ramekin so some stranger can pour ranch dressing on his salad.  You burn your hands on the plate of NY steak.  You search for lids that aren’t cracked or riddled with heat bubbles.  You stack up the rest of the entrees, and count them.  OK, you’ve got all eighteen of them. You get slightly self-conscious, and you hope you don’t fall because not only would that be embarrassing but it would be a huge pain in the ass to round up those entrees again.  You know the steak guy isn’t going to be very happy with you if you have to ask for two well-dones on the fly.  Sweat accumulates at the small of your back and also forms puddles under your arms.  But you land the tray safely at your side-stand.  The hard part is over. 

You consult your waiter’s order pad and disperse all the entrees, ladies first, and pray that the meat retained its heat.  Everything is dropped and you realize you’re thirsty and you’re starting to yawn.  You check your watch and realize it’s only 7:30, and you might not get to slink into your bed for another three hours.  The dining room is cacophonous with scattered conversations, and you haven’t had a day off in ninety four days, and you forget what it’s like to hear silence.

I worked at least sixteen cruises as an assistant waiter, and I often asked myself why I felt compelled to work with a sense of urgency. I was accustomed to the rules of restaurants on land.  I wanted to hustle, so I could get more money. I followed all the proper steps and often invited guests to return the next night to dine with me and my front waiter, but I only received two envelopes of cash tips my entire contract. 

During my first month, a family continuously requested my front waiter, and at the end of the week they gave us $80 to split.  A few weeks later, I worked with a different front waiter, and two friendly couples dined with us all week.  Before they left, they tipped us each $100.  Aside from those instances, I pocketed a few five dollar bills and the occasional twenty, but seeing cash on the table was rare.  So rare, in fact, that I began to question if all the extra effort was worth the minor possibility of a tip.

With two months left on my contract, I was overexerting myself.  The guests were relentless.  There was no end to their demands, and there would be no break until I went on vacation.  To avoid further fatigue, I would always rush through my sidework, so I could clock out early and head to bed.  But then I realized I was employing the wrong strategy.  What does it matter if I get those entrees out a little faster?  The guests aren’t tipping even when I quicken my pace.  Why should I rush through my sidework?  The linen isn’t going to complain if I take my time. 

I vowed that I wouldn’t concern myself about the hours.  I would just show up on time and do my job as quickly as possible.  Work was just something I put up with to see Hawaii.  Even when I was at work I didn’t want to talk about work.  Meanwhile, my coworkers would boast when their hours were high and complain when their hours were low.  I heard people getting angry when they didn’t get sixty hours per week.

“If I’m going to be here on the ship,” many people would say, “Then I am here to work as much as I can.” 

I jokingly responded that I would be content with thirty hours, and then that retort backfired.  One week I worked barely over forty hours, which would be normal in the real world, but normality takes on a new definition when you step onboard the ship.  My paycheck was a joke.    

The numbers, I soon realized, were everything.  As an assistant waiter, my base rate is $8.50 per hour plus a percentage of the service charge paid by the guests, and we also get a percentage of alcohol sales.  When I hit overtime, I can make over $12 per hour.  Overtime is where you make your money, but it’s not that easy to gobble up those extra hours.  The manager is ruthless when it comes to cutting hours because reducing labor costs is, after all, her job.  The trick to getting more money, then, has nothing to do with the guests.  It’s all about time management.  You compete with your coworkers.  The manager is the villain.  You have to learn how to play the game.

In order to understand how to cheat the system, you must understand how the schedule works.  I worked in Skyline for breakfast and dinner from Sunday to Thursday.  On Fridays and Saturdays I would work an additional lunch shift.  The time you start your shift is dependent upon how many hours you’ve already racked up during the week.  If you have fewer hours than most of your coworkers, you’ll start earlier than them, and you’ll most likely have time-consuming sidework to finish after all your tables have been reset.  If you have more hours than most of your coworkers, you’ll go in later and possibly be cut early. The manager staggers the starting times and assigns sidework in such a way to balance everyone’s hours.  Her prerogative is eliminate as many overtime hours as possible without reducing the quality of the service.  The company is trying to save money, and you are trying to take it from them without them noticing.    

The trick in the beginning is to have low hours.  On Sundays I would usually report for duty at 7:30 A.M.  We close the doors around 9:00 A.M., and usually most guests finish up and get off the ship within a half an hour.  So I start the week off with two hours, while some of my coworkers who showed up earlier and stayed later to complete sidework may rack up four hours.  The manager notices who has high hours early in the week, and she’ll give them a morning off. 

You may be thinking that a morning off is exactly what a normal person would want, but you have to strategize when to get these days off.  If you get a morning off early in the week, this will allow your coworkers to surpass you in this race.  What this means is that you’ll end up vacuuming the floor three days in a row because you’re the farthest away from overtime. The person who vacuums must wait until every guest has left the dining room, and this can take a while.  Your manager knows this, and that’s precisely why she appointed you to suck up the crumbs.  Your labor is cheapest at this point.

After breakfast service is over, I check the dinner schedule.  I go in at 5:30.  I think I can stretch at least five hours especially if I get assigned sidework.  Now it’s time to catch up to the middle of the pack.  I want my hours to match the majority of my coworkers because I’m shooting to get Thursday night or Saturday afternoon off.  It’s optimal to get Thursday night off because we have an overnight on the island of Kaua’i.  There’s no point in having a night off when the ship is at sea because you can’t go anywhere.  On Saturday, we’re in Honolulu, and nobody wants to work a lunch shift anyway because the service is so inefficient it’s likely to give everyone a headache.

I report for my dinner shift on time, or maybe even five minutes early.  The company allows that.  Some people try to clock in fifteen minutes before they’re scheduled to start.  Those are the professionals.  They’ve been playing the hours for years, and they’ve mastered the game.  I calculated that if I were to clock in early five minutes and clock out late five minutes for every shift in a five month contract, you could make at least an extra $200 with very little effort.  My fellow coworkers are well aware how to squeeze every last cent out of this company, so they try to bend the rules a bit. 

The ship is a rather large vessel, and there are too many crew members to monitor.  There’s only one manager, and her vision is poor.  I’ve heard tales of crew members punching in for work and then eating dinner in the mess for thirty minutes before heading upstairs to actually work.  A friend told me in confidence that he used to clock in for his provisions shift and then return to his room and sleep for three hours.  I’ve heard of people taking an hour to separate napkins from tablecloths, a chore that should only take fifteen minutes maximum.    

My coworkers were lollygagging while I was running back and forth from the table to the galley, and we were both getting paid the same amount.  My paycheck did not differ greatly no matter how many times I turned my tables.  In fact, my paycheck hardly differed if I had any tables at all.  Working hard was working against me in this situation.  I needed to change my philosophy and adapt.  My diligence dissolved as I grew tired of laboring my days away.  All I wanted to do was survive and have enough energy to explore the islands in between shifts.  I justified my newfound apathy by admitting to myself I wasn't put on this earth to toil my only life away. 

Between clocking in and clocking out, there is little I can do to significantly alter my income.  Even if I sell a thousand dollars’ worth of alcohol, I’m not suddenly going to elevate my status above the middle class.  This is not my passion, so I can forgive myself for slacking off from time to time.  I have my pride, but I also need my sanity.  All I must do is give the illusion that I’m working and watch the hours pass by.