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.  

                

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...

Home Away From Home

I'm standing on stage under the bright lights of the Hollywood Theater with a small army of assistant waiters decked out in our mustard yellow uniforms. Hundreds of cruisers in the crowd applaud our efforts for the week. They clap for us--for all the miles we walked from the galley to their table, for all the coffees we've refilled, for all of the questions we've answered time after time. Everyone is clapping rhythmically, even the captain.

I clap along so that I don't appear anymore out of place than I already feel. I'm not a dancer or a singer, so why am I here, slapping my sweaty palms together? I'd prefer to stop because my skin has become so dried and cracked due to excessive handwashing.

The cruise director wears a purple lei and holds a microphone. She introduces each department so the cruisers understand why these non-performers momentarily share the spotlight with the metrosexual entertainers with their gelled hair and sculpted bodies.

"Give it up for your restaurant department!" the cruise director beams.

This little charade is called Home Away from Home, and it happens every Friday, the last night of the cruise. The singers perform sentimental numbers and hop around like members of an overzealous boy band. The songs are designed to flood the cruisers with overwhelmingly positive emotions. The performers give the illusion that this week's cruisers are our family members, and they'll always have a home away from home. 

We say that to everyone, but these staterooms are not a second home. Yet the singers bray, "Wherever you go, you'll find a home inside our memories." 

This sappy goodbye has an extremely capitalist undertone. If you listen to the words closely enough, you'll hear the message:  Come spend your money here again! 

I stare out at the crowd and wonder if the cruisers really know the truth behind all these performances. They're applauding us for all our hard work to provide them with the vacation of a lifetime, but do they know what goes on behind the scenes? Do they understand all the scavenger hunts we must embark upon to find the necessary supplies so that the cruisers can simply sit down on a crumbless chair and read a menu with options that correlate with the food being cooked? I wonder.

On a Friday evening like any other, a few hours before I went onstage, I found myself in Skyline Restaurant serving strangers who were staring out the windows and gazing at the Napoli Coast of Kaua'i. The seas are especially turbulent in this area, and the ship is frequently jostled by the rough swells. The floor leans unexpectedly, and the occasional bump disorients my sense of balance and leaves me with a queasy stomach and an aching head. The threat of vomiting was quite persistent that day.

As I refilled waters and dropped desserts, I imagined the embarassment that would ensue should my body choose at this most inconvenient moment to regurgitate my own dinner onto the dining room floor. Or even worse should my roaring projectile land onto this gentle octogenarian enjoying his cheesecake. 

Everyone would stop and stare at me, at which point I would have no choice but to apologize profusely. The disturbance would likely make me extremely anxious, which would reignite another violent spew. Then, like an innocent toddler who has peed the bed in the middle of the night, I would explain to my superior that I simply lost control of my bodily functions. My manager would shake her head in disgust, as if to say "What is wrong with you?" for which I could provide no explanation that could make this problem disappear. Before the clean-up crew arrived, I would say goodbye to all of my friends, and then I would promptly run away, hide in my room, and never emerge except to inform HR of my immediate resignation.

Visions of this debacle caused me to ask my manager if I could change out the menus. This request led me to a cramped, two by four closet with no windows and poor ventilation. Changing out the menus is a tedious and rather time-consuming task, but when work is slow I always volunteer for this job because of the privacy and the opportunity to smuggle in spring rolls.

I sit down on a chair pilfered from the dining room and remove the left insert from each menu cover. On this sheet of paper, Friday's special appetizers and entrees are listed. I place that into the bin labeled Friday and then insert Saturday's sheet into each menu. I repeated this process roughly 100 times until I realized that the bile rising in my throat was not going to subside.

I took a few deep breaths as a last attempt to fight the insurgence, but I knew my efforts were futile, so I sprang out of the miniature closet and raced downstairs to the nearest crew bathroom. I locked the door and opened the stall. I got down on my knees on that filthy floor and hurled my guts into a dirty toilet. 

After an encore outburst through my esophagus, I washed my face in the sink and calmly left the bathroom as though nothing unordinarily painful just occurred. A friend stopped me in the hallway and during our brief conversation the subject of unburdening my intestines was never mentioned. I tried to keep my mouth shut so that no foul odor would escape. My friend walked away, and I went to my bedroom to brush my teeth.

Upon determining that my breath smelled of mint rather than stomach acid, I promptly returned to my voluntary exile in the menu closet. After two more hours of switching around pages with different words on them, I finished the task. Now the new cruisers boarding on Saturday will be able to deliberate between various dining options. 

On that stage in the Hollywood Theater, the memory of my seasickness was still ripe. Nonetheless, I wore a neutral expression and clapped along with the audience, but I clapped for different reasons. As the liaison with the general public, we workers give the impression we cater to people's needs because we genuinely care about them, but this is rarely the case. I don't believe anyone flat out hates the guests, but we certainly didn't apply for this job so that we could selflessly pamper retirees and newlyweds. This is not something people volunteer for wholeheartedly.  

When a guest sits down at my table, I'm not really curious about what kind of day they have been having. These introductory questions are mere formalities, and the words that fill the silence give the impression that I care. I'm not apathetic about these people.  More specifically, their life outside the dinner service is completely detached from mine, and I will likely never see them again after dessert. 

Nonetheless, I inquire about their current state of being, since this practice has become so solidified throughout history as to be considered polite behavior. My ancestors before me established the etiquette for human interaction; I merely follow the rules they've created. 

So I ask these strangers about their day in hope that their previous hours sucking oxygen on this green planet have been pleasant. If the guests are in high spirits, this makes my life easier because I won't have to try as hard to please them. 

Happy people are more likely than angry people to give away their money. The guest's mood is directly correlated to my well-being. Therefore, I give good service so I can rest fully at night, buy food to prevent my organs from failing, and to avoid painful episodes such as the one which occurred in a certain crew bathroom on a particular Friday night. When I serve with a smile, I'm not flattering anyone. I'm not being nice. I am staying out of trouble. I am surviving.

We are finished on the stage now, so we proceed to a red-carpeted hallway with walls painted with photographers snapping pictures with the flash on. The Hollywood theme is designed to make cruisers feel like they're celebrities. In this luxurious corridor, assistant waiters, executive sous chefs, entertainers, hostesses, and guest service attendants line up along the walls. 

All of us cheer on the cruisers as they exit the theater. My coworkers clap wildly, and many of them yell out, "Thank you for being here." The cruisers file between us like foreign diplomats being sent off in a royal parade.

"Na na na na," someone chants spontaneously until the mob catches on. "Hey hey hey... Goodbye."

Mostly the guests smile, and some of them tear up while they hug staff members with whom they've become attached during this brief encounter. I stand there with the corners of my lips turned slightly upward to hide my impatience. 

The truth is:  I'm here because my manager tells me I need more hours. In other words, my coworkers have more overtime than me, so my labor is cheaper. My front waiter makes $11 an hour, and I only make $8.50. I am

a body filling up space and making background noise with my palms. I am the anonymous man who changes out the menus.

Sometimes I am flattered when a guest thanks me for working so hard, but I never say you're welcome. Instead I fall prey to the American habit saying, "Thank you," when someone thanks me. I realize that my paycheck is dependent upon the guest's spending habits, but like so many transactions in this country money is rarely discussed out in the open. Instead, we put on a show to conceal our hustle. 

Cash is stuffed in envelopes or check presenters. Waiters hide while guests fill out their credit card slips, and the total is rarely revealed until the customer has left the building. As soon as the guests pass me in the hallway, their concerns are no longer mine. Our paths that have briefly crossed are disconnected once more. Now I can eat my midnight snack and go to bed to dream my own dreams.

Exceptional Days: Drill!

"Attention all crew. Attention all crew," says a man over the loud speaker. "This is a drill. This is a drill. This is a drill."

The sound of his voice generally means that it's Tuesday somewhere between nine and ten o'clock in the morning when we practice general emergencies and report to our abandon ship stations.

"Code Bravo for exercise. Deck one, zone one," the voice rings out.

Like the military, cruise ships have their own lingo for such hindrances as a leak in the hull or an explosion in the engine room. Rather than screaming, "Fire!" and causing the guests to panic, we speak in code. 

After the announcement, the fire team stops what they're doing. Drill is usually planned when the majority of meal service is over so the eggs are not abandoned on the griddle. They dash toward their lockers to don their protective gear and to wield their hoses and then report to the designated zone. 

With the exception of commanders, the fire team is composed of volunteer shipmates. We've all been trained how to operate multiple extinguishers on all types of fires. Captains often prefer to use an onboard team over a band of professionals on shore because the shipmates can better navigate the vessel's labyrinthine corridors. The same goes for the medical team, who receive in-house training and respond mostly to fallen senior citizens.

As for me, I wait for the general emergency alarm:  six short blasts and one long. Generally there is about a ten to fifteen minute lag between the initial message and the alarm, but that is not always the case. If I'm at work when I hear the first announcement, I continue working, but I try not to begin any time-consuming task because the bell could ring at any moment. I could wait five minutes or an hour. 

If I'm in my room at the time, I slip into my blue jumpsuit, tie my shoes, and stash my sunglasses in my shirt pocket. Then I read at my desk until the deafening beeps interrupt the silence. I make my way to the mid-ship staircases where I find my lazy shipmates waiting for the elevator. We're supposed to be practicing for the unlikely event of an emergency, but not everyone takes this seriously. 

Since when did this attitude become accepted as cool? I never seem able to adopt the popular mindset at the same time as my peers. I would much rather goof off during the dinner service, which, perversely enough, my shipmates conduct themselves more seriously than they do while training for a crisis.

I climb up to deck six and cross a fancy wine bar to reach the promenade track that encircles the ship. Once outside, I head toward my locker room. Bulbous, orange lifeboats are parked above my head. Workers in blue jumpsuits climb ladders to reach them on the upper deck. 

I pass by a herd of newcomers standing stiffly at the assembly station. Their necks are squeezed by puffy life vests. I remember what it was like to stand there in silence mere weeks ago. My only responsibility was to yell out my safety number when the team leader read it from her sheet. I watched everyone zip by me with their automatic, Tuesday-ingrained movements to their preordained spots. I was a confused baby lamb corralled in a cramped pen. If the ship were to start sinking, someone would come to rescue me.

But now I walk past them with my own mechanized movements to perform my duty that is designed to prevent the newbies from drowning. I put on my harness like a hiker's backpack and fasten the straps around each of my thighs. I approach a large crane and open the gate nearby and hook my carabiner around a vertical pole. Behind me there is no railing to separate me from the sea six stories below. The first time I found myself near the precipice I hoped I would get to rappel down the side of the ship, but the harness was not designed for enjoyment. Its purpose is to prevent me from falling overboard.

My partner files into our tiny pocket and latches himself to the other side of the fence.  My partner is a broadcast technician responsible for filming material and maintaining the network channeled into crew TVs. He's been a journalist in the States and has worked on another cruise ship in the Caribbean. Even though his job is much cooler than mine, drill unifies us all. Life-threatening situations have a tendency to reduce even the most technologically savvy individuals to bare limbs and muscles capable of the simple dexterity and strength to get out of harm's way.

Between my partner and me lies a cylindrical container with a hard plastic shell. Inside lies a shriveled-up life raft capable of expanding to hold 35 people. Ten more of these shells stand behind my partner, and there are several of these stations on deck each equipped with their own crane.

A stout man named Hector is the team leader who operates the crane and yells out the instructions. He wears Ray Ban shades and lifting gloves to protect his hands from the grease on the lever. He told me he wants to go on vacation in Thailand to get shredded. At first I was intimidated by his size and by the tone of his voice. He would ask me questions about the life raft as though he were giving me a pop quiz.

"What does the container line do?"

"How long is the painter line?"

"What is the secondary means of inflation?"

I was new, and I had never seen this monster unleashed from its cage. During drill we simulate inflating the raft by hoisting a giant dumbbell overboard, and I pretend to inflate the metallic object by pulling on an invisible line. So far, drill was all about pretending. The painter line was however long I imagined it to be. As I stared out at the snow-tipped peak of Mauna Loa from the port of Hilo, I tried to envision myself amidst a violent storm, smothered in salty spray, swathed in darkness as I squinted in the moonlight to read the instructions and corresponding pictograms on how to inflate the life raft. The task seemed similar to assembling a complicated IKEA futon while skydiving. 

I didn't have a complete understanding of my duty until the Coast Guard came onboard for an inspection. The safety officer, let's call him Paul, arranged a training for all the life raft teams in preparation for Coast Guard's arrival. 

Paul's head is shaved and his cheeks are coated with a thick beard. Usually he walks around the ship in a white jumpsuit and a pair of Nike running shoes. Each time he passes me, he mumbles, "What's up?" in such a dry tone that gives me the impression that he generally despises most people but has accepted the fact he must interact with them. His casual use of profanity combined with his neon-tipped footwear often makes me forget that he is a three-striped officer.

Assistant managers have one stripe; GMs have two. Department directors and the captain have three stripes on their epaulettes. It is a strange phenomenon to witness how symbolic shoulder decorations can alter a person's psychology. All the striped officers wear white shirts and white pants, a vivid outfit that clearly distinguishes them from the laborers. When I see stripes I often double check that I'm not breaking any rules, and I do my best to appear innocent and obedient. 

The white uniforms have a Pavlovian effect on me that makes me slightly tense and more alert. I begin to associate officers and managers with their uniforms as though they are tattoos unable to be removed. I have difficulty imagining these people in civilian clothes, living ordinary lives, shopping for deodorant, taking out the trash, or eating at a restaurant they don't manage. When I chance upon a casually dressed manager, I often do not recognize him. 

Whoever created this uniform system understood the division of labor and its subsequent mental side effects. However, when I see Paul in the hallways I often try to envision his personal life, and I wonder how he got here. He is very friendly with many of my coworkers in a mocking way. He strikes me as a former frat boy who half-jokingly bullied guys with inferior practical skills associated with masculinity such as leaning under the hood of a car and vaguely pointing to indistinguishable parts of an engine and giving highly unspecific directions about what to do to get the motor running. 

When Paul is in his element, however, he knows how to run the show, and he demands respect. He is a man you do not want to see angry, especially if you are the source of his anger.

During the drill, Paul gives the go-ahead to Hector who stands ready at the crane with his gloved hands and his dreams of bulking up in Southeast Asia.

"Prepare the raft," Hector yells.

I'm not involved in the deployment of the real raft since I'm new. An experienced team is performing the real procedure. The man in my position hands a shackle to his partner who aligns the ring into the crevice of the hook. Using two small rods that look like lipstick cases, the two men attach the pieces together, and now the shell is connected to the crane.

Hector raises the shell by rotating a lever. At this point, Paul playfully undermines Hector's strength and mocks all those protein shakes and daily lunches of quinoa. This mocking is typical of hyper masculine men who harbor deep fears of revealing their feminine qualities, so they make sure to emphasize these exact qualities in other equally hyper masculine men.

Because of the jokes, Hector pumps the lever faster so as to convince his audience of his beastly fortitude. Then he slews the raft outward as the other men hold the left and right lines to stabilize the shell. Once the shell is completely off the deck, the man in my position hands the left line to Hector and pulls on the painter line. One hundred feet of cord gradually emerges from a tiny crevice in the container. 

The man gives the line a final tug, the shell bursts open like an air bag in a car crash and dangles below a tangled ball of orange and black. Compressed air canisters hiss. The life raft inflates as it hangs suspended above the water and level with the ship.  The bottom of the raft is thick and black, and an orange roof sits atop the base like a tipi. The lip of the raft is only a step away from the ship's edge.

I wanted to board the raft and then get in the water. I wondered if there were saltine crackers stashed inside a pouch somewhere. I tried to imagine drifting out to sea in this tiny float. What if I encountered a real emergency? What would I bring with me? How would I handle surviving at sea with people I barely know? 

As soon as I asked myself these questions, I realized this pretend scenario is not so different from surviving on a cruise ship that isn't sinking. Oftentimes there are no instructions of how to act in any given situation. You merely react instinctively to escape pain and and flee toward comfort. 

This is what we are all trying to accomplish in life, but in the real world away from the ship we do not practice fleeing in such mechanized ways. On the ship, we prepare ourselves to elude death, while telling ourselves an accident will never happen to us. We prepare to abandon our jobs, our routines, our possessions. We practice how to move on with this life and seek temporary relief. In this manner, every day is a drill for the next.

Exceptional Days: Provisions

Each day of the week has a distinct feel. I only know life on Maui on Sundays and Mondays. On Wednesdays the ship floats in the bay, and tender boats shuttle guests and crew to shore and back.  Most of the crew rides the early tender boat to have lunch in the tourist friendly Kona, so I take advantage of their absence by doing my laundry, a chore that requires me to handle the undergarments of strangers as I transfer their soggy load into the dryer to free up the washer for my soiled accoutrements. A dry batch of pleasant smelling clothes with no missing socks is a cause for celebration.

I look forward to Thursdays like the rest of the world anticipates the weekend. The majority of guests attend the luau and the accompanying feast of local cuisine on Kauai. A lucky few get the night off while the rest of us show up to an empty-ish restaurant in our flower-patterned Hawaiian shirts. Wearing short sleeves makes me feel lighter as though customers expect less of me as less of my body is covered. 

Although a fair portion of my coworkers often gripe about enduring the same shit on a different day, not every day is an exact replica of the one before. There are days of exception, days in which I feel more like a sailor rather than a regular guy who happens to work in a restaurant that happens to be floating on the sea.

On Saturdays we dock in Honolulu, where we dump off passengers and refill with a new batch of pot-bellied senior citizens prone to possessing zero self-awareness amidst high traffic areas as well as a dangerously apathetic stance toward their diet. In addition to amassing another small town population, we get most of our provisions delivered on Saturday.

The provisions department is the epitome of manual labor. In order to secure a job in this field, one does not need to possess impressive cognitive abilities. Sharp minds are in short supply, and so are bodies. Thus, restaurant workers are required, every now and then, to lend our hands.

I slip into my blue jumpsuit that looks like a cross between kiddie pajamas and a mechanic's uniform. I don a pair of gloves and proceed to the second deck. A grimy elevator delivers a pallet stacked high with boxes filled with an assortment of food and beverages. JoAnne, a middle-aged black woman with sculpted forearms and a permanent scowl, operates the fork lift and drives the pallet into the refrigerated cavern called the fruit box. Here I stand with a thirty-ish Korean-American named James who possesses a penchant for mumbling and a strong desire to avoid teamwork.

JoAnne drops off the load as James and I stare at the massive pile of boxes before us. Each box contains six watermelons that accumulatively weigh sixty pounds. As the assistant storekeeper, it is James' responsibility to organize the giant cooler into neat columns of fruit. The old produce is to remain accessible so they can be used first, and the new stock is pushed to the back. 

The fruit box is probably fifteen by thirty feet. The floor is silver and has those crisscross marks you find in the bed of a pick-up truck that transports a lot of heavy machinery. Shelves on one side of the room house Granny Smith apples and grapes of both colors. Boxes of Dole pineapple are stacked next to the papaya. This job is like playing Tetris in real life as we attempt to fit a week's worth of essential nutrients into a tiny chamber.

The task is simple:  I lift the heavy watermelons onto a steel platform and then proceed to stack five more boxes on top. You may be wondering where the challenge arises, and superior minds would realize there is none, but superior minds do not often work in provisions, so problems frequently ensue. We finish with the watermelon, then James is stumped with the arrival of honeydew.

"Shit," James says, "Where am I gonna put this?"

I recall from an earlier conversation that James has worked here for two years and has expressed a lack of interest in performing the same actions over and over again for two round-trips around the sun.

"Don't you arrange the fruit the same way  each week?" I ask.

"The shipments are different each week," he says, and I begin to wonder how much variation one can find inside such a cramped refrigerator. James freezes, lost in deliberation. I try to imagine the inner workings of his mind as he calculates the benefits of his limited possibilities.

"Fuck it," he says, "We'll get another pallet and put the honeydew next to the watermelon." A brilliant idea, I assure him, as that particular location is better than leaving the fruit to rot in the  hallways that already smell faintly of overly ripe bananas.

After solving the honeydew puzzle, I am needed in the dry goods store, where many of my fellow waiters stand around a bag of Lays Ruffles and a jar of herb cheese dip freshly pilfered from cardboard boxes. Managers are rarely around, so the workers often steal a few incoming treats:  a grape here, a sleeve of Oreos there.  The greatest benefit of working in provisions, however, is that one gets to escape the guests for one shift.  For roughly five hours, I don't have to wait on impatient, short-haired women with calves that resemble a series of marshmallows impaled on a stick.

I approach my coworkers, take off my gloves and grab a handful of chips. A skinny Puerto Rican fellow says that his muscles are growing. A dainty Filipino laughs at this while a tall Romanian guy takes his break away from this eclectic duo. A corn-rowed black woman with tattooed forearms and thick biceps walks past the door and into the bread storage.

Everyone is required to wear a name tag that also includes the city from which we were hired. Minor research has led me to conclude that the company recruits inner city workers from areas with weak economies. Many dishwashers are from suburbs of Detroit, Michigan, and a vast majority of waiters come from Florida, the state that played a huge role in the 2008 economic collapse. Tent cities were popping up everywhere in the Sunshine State because of all the foreclosures of cookie-cutter neighborhoods built and then sold overnight to attract a new flock of snowbirds and recent retirees with poor credit histories.

Since the company is based out of Miami, it is easy for them to suck up all the Floridians desperate for jobs. I searched for two months and found nothing in St. Petersburg before I landed an interview at the Hilton in downtown Tampa. Now here I am lifting heavy boxes like a stevedore for a wage just above minimum alongside immigrants from poorer nations and the young American working class from areas of little economic promise.

When I look around in provisions, I often find that I am the only white American around. It is difficult to avoid treading in racist waters when I realize that members of my particular pigmentation are not often employed in these environs. Rather, almost all the department heads, major officers, and corporate hotshots are white; they are not the ones straining under the weight of sixty pounds of watermelon. 

I don't want to feel like I shouldn't be here as though I am merely visiting and can come and go whenever I please. It is true:  I am fortunate that I do not absolutely need this job unlike many of the international employees who have few choices but to stay here because this job is more reliable than the available options at home. I have observed the popular sentiment that certain individuals feel they are above such a line of work, but I find dignity in the type of labor that results in sweat stains under my arms.

JoAnne delivers another pallet consisting of strawberry preserves, corn starch, and various shapes of pasta. The waiters finish their chips and put their gloves back on. We dismantle another pallet in what seems like an endless series. We ask where each box should go, and JoAnne points a gloved finger and says, "Over there," until eventually we know exactly where everything belongs.