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.

The Average Day

I'm dreaming about work again. I'm in the weeds running around frantically with a tray of food in my hand when I notice my section is getting bigger and more guests are sitting down. I stop what I'm doing and realize the restaurant is actually expanding. The walls are receding. The carpet is elongating. Tables and chairs are suddenly appearing. 

A feeling of apprehension grips me. This emotion, a conglomeration of anxiety and apathy, is normal in the restaurant industry. It dawns on me I will have to perform several tasks simultaneously in a very short period of time in order to please a tiny population of strangers. Part of me says I will be just fine. I've done this before, and I can do it again. But the rest of me asks why. Why don't you do something else for money? Why don't you save yourself from the perils of the dinner rush? Why not just walk away?  

My alarm chirps, and I awake to a pitch black room. A heaviness settles on my brain as though something is sitting on top of it that shouldn't be. The half of me that is still asleep thinks I'm at work. My hands think they should be removing dishes. I slide open my curtain and turn on the lights in my windowless quarters. Harry Potter had more space in his broom closet. At least he only had Hedwig as a roommate. I have two, and they are larger than owls.

I shower merely to prevent a bad hair day and to remove the crusty boogers from my eyes. I trudge up to the mess for my habitual breakfast of oatmeal, cereal, yogurt, three pineapple chunks, and a carton of TruMoo chocolate milk. I search  for a small table away from people making too much noise in the morning. I find a seat near the wall away from my friends. They think I want to sit with them but I don't. I don't want to hear about their jobs. Yesterday's struggles are the same as those thirty seven days ago.   My friends think I'm weird since I prefer to sit by myself as though my preference for solitude is a mental deficiency.

I open my book and hide behind it. I hope no one notices me, but inevitably someone sits down across from me. 

"What's going on?" this person says. I try  to word my response politely but cannot make my current situation more obvious.

"I'm reading," I say, which really means:  Go away.

This person still doesn't detect the social cues. Only people who don't read interrupt those who do. Fellow readers understand our mutual desire to be left alone. I've met non-readers who scoff at this hobby and attempt to sabotage me from further sharpening my mind.

I try not to be rude to anyone on the ship because we all live and work together. There is no escaping anyone. Sure, there are places to hide, but people always manage to find me in the only place we are allowed to eat, especially when I don't want to be found. I'm the kind of person who would rather ask how you are doing once a week, or even once a month. Moods around the ship rarely change. Most people are gloomy, and I avoid spending time under their dark clouds. A precious few are upbeat and sunny.

When I'm seated next to someone who isn't a scintillating conversationalist, I try to eat my meal as quickly as possible, so I can get out of there. An empty plate is a socially acceptable reason to part company. An empty plate signals that I'm finished. This discussion is over. Goodbye. 

Usually I wouldn't be so curt, but I don't have time to waste. I only have four to five hours of free time each day, and I intend to use them wisely. I don't want to discuss aching body parts, chopping vegetables, and inconvenient schedules. I've heard that all before, and now I avoid it at all costs. I want to be elevated and transported to a different world outside these walls.

I sort my trash and my dirty plates near the dish pit and head upstairs for work. I clock in, and the machine reads my thumbprint. My manager greets me and tells me my duty for the day. The task stays the same all week.

"You're on plates and bowls," my manager says.

I walk to the back of the kitchen and find a cart composed of drink racks piled on top of each other. I load plates and bowls onto the flat surface and cruise around the old-timers scoping out the buffet options. I restock the diminishing piles of plates as hundreds of overfed passengers continue to get their fill. It takes me roughly five minutes to replenish the entire restaurant of clean wares, but I stretch this out into three hours. 

I don't mind the monotony in such small doses. Brainless work clears the mind, so I fill in the blanks. I plan future excursions on the islands.  I chat with the dishwashers while waiting for plates. 

I chat with Mark, who is busy trying to look busy at the sandwich station. Mark is a fiftyish nomad full of energy and passion. He has taught English in Spain, explored South America, lived in New York City, and worked in the Grand Canyon. Ever since I met him at Piney Point during our basic safety training, he has been my main man who has saved me and my mind from dropping into a dark abyss of pessimism. We lift each other up with our mutual dreams.

When you restock plates continuously for three hours every day for a week or more, dreams not only keep you afloat, they keep you sane. I envision my bank account growing. I anticipate taking three months off without worrying about money. I haven't spent a single dollar in nearly a month. Everything I earn, I save. Despite the hardships and the boredom, I see how my shipmates can get addicted to this lifestyle. If I did this for two more years, I could pay off my student loans, a significant five figure debt, but my hair would turn gray and my heart would turn black. The constant toil and sleep deprivation is known to destroy kindness. 

I consult my watch:  only ninety minutes more of restocking plates before I can get off the ship. All the plates are stocked, and there's nothing to do. Rather than be scolded for standing around or be given a ridiculous assignment to take full advantage of my labor, I hide in the bathroom. Or I'll get a drink in the crew mess, seven decks below. I'll take the stairs, one at a time, because that takes longer. When your race is five months long, slow and steady wins every time. 

When a catchy song erupts from the speakers of the buffet, I linger in the dining room and avoid talking to anyone to better soak up the sweet sounds. The average song is three minutes, I say to myself. I just need thirty more of those, and I'll be set. When the song ends, I avoid the managers by taking the back way to the Linai, where I stare at the ocean and fill my lungs with real air. I take the long way back to the buffet and sneak into the sports bar to check the score of the game. Before I know it, I'm clocking out, changing into my civilian clothes, and slicing through the breeze on my fold-up bike. 

The bike collapses compactly enough to fit in my closet. When I get off work in the morning, I transform the metal origami into a rideable machine. Before setting out, I apply sunscreen even on cloudy days and then consult my watch. I like to be back on the ship at least an hour before my shift so I can shower and eat dinner. I have three hours to roam. I step off the gangway and pick a direction:  left or right. I explore for an hour and a half, then turn around. It's nearly impossible to get lost on an island, especially the circular ones.

My explorations envigorate me and remind me why I came here. I restock plates to hike in the lava fields and fly down winding switchbacks and to see what's around the next bend. 

When I return to the old ball and chain, it's chicken and rice for dinner again. Unlike breakfast, I usually sit with my comrades and tell them tales of my recent expedition.

I button the top button of my mustard yellow shirt, and I'm ready for the dinner shift. I check in with my manager and find my front waiter. The average age for our cruisers is 62, so nearly everyone likes to eat early. The dining room fills. My front waiter takes orders from eighteen hungry guests. She hands me the ticket. I run to the kitchen and round up spring rolls, salads, salmon tartare, and soup. Then I fetch entrees.

I look the cook in the eyes and wait until he returns my gaze, signaling that it's ok to order. 

"Two Skyline salmon, please," I say.

Then I wait until he plates them. When they're up in the window under the heat of the salamander, I top them with lids and stack them on my tray. Now I need five chef specials, but there are eight people in front of me, all waiting for the same dish. Sometimes I'm stuck in line fifteen minutes waiting for one dish.

If I have to wait in multiple lines, I can be trapped in the kitchen for forty-five minutes, especially when the guy cooking the steaks has a row of tickets twenty feet long. He once cooked 160 steaks nonstop for two hours straight, and he has another dish to make on top of his NY Strip duty. I used to get impatient waiting for the food and I would drum on my tray to amuse myself, but now I am accustomed to the chaos. When you have twenty people cooking dinner for a thousand, somebody's going to have to wait. 

Some customers must think I'm dipping around in the back with my thumb up my ass. There are people who do that, but not during the dinner rush. A woman once complained that her entrees took forty-five minutes. She was observing the tables around her who received their food  before she did. 

"We were here before them, and we finally got our entrees," she bickered. 

I didn't realize she was racing the other guests, so I tried to appease her with a conciliatory tone.

"I'm sorry about the wait," I said. "The lines are getting really long in the kitchen, but we are doing the best we can."

She demanded to see a dessert menu ASAP to get that order in to avoid waiting for her next caloric intake. Judging by her size, she would do well to forgo eating for the remainder of the cruise, but I did not tell her so.

"The desserts won't take long at all," I said, calmly. "They are already prepared, so I don't have to wait for them."

"Are you sure?" she asked me. She spoke to me as though I were a dog who peed on the carpet because he didn't know any better. Many cruisers assume the workers are uneducated immigrants. Many are surprised to hear that I have a college degree and am fluent in English.

"I'm quite positive," I assure this woman and walk back to my side stand while cursing her under my breath. I wonder where this lady thinks she is going. We are floating on obsidian water after the sun has set. We are surrounded by darkness somewhere between O'ahu and Maui on a luxury cruise in what many people consider to be paradise. And she's in a hurry.

A rushed lifestyle has become the norm. It is woven into the American Dream to consume and accomplish as much as we can as fast as we can. I'm rushing, too. Rushing to finish my work to retreat to my bed. I'm rushing my contract so I can head home to get lost in anonymity. 

I count down the minutes of my shift and cross off the days in my calendar, but I'm trying to stop doing this. I'm trying to prevent myself from constantly anticipating the next stage of my life. I want to say I'm perfectly content with today. But before I can do that, I hit the refresh button and yesterday happens again. 

Round and Round

For the passengers, this cruise is a seven day vacation around the Hawaiian islands, but for the crew this job is a five month loop repeating week after week. The ship starts in Honolulu on the island of Oahu. When all the guests come onboard, we sail to the peaceful island of Maui. We dock overnight in Kahului, a small port town that boasts a Whole Foods and a Regal Cinema. 

The Big Island is next--first the rainy and overcast Hilo (the state's second most populated city behind the capital) and then Kona, famous for its coffee and clear waters ideal for snorkeling. From Kona we hit the high seas on the longest stretch of our journey as we head northwest to Kuaui, also known as the Garden Island so called for its bountiful vegetation. We have another overnight in Nawiliwili, where the beach and the bars are only a five minute walk from the ship. 

Finally we return to Honolulu to drop off the passengers in the morning and then pick up a fresh batch of paying customers at noon. How can anyone be even remotely disappointed with this itinerary? You've got the big city of Honolulu with its unique mixture of skyscrapers, lush greenery, ornate palaces of the former Hawaiian monarchy, Pearl Harbor, and, of course, the beach at Waikiki. If you walk a few miles outside these tiny cities, you can find yourself hiking in the vast wilderness nestled between the verdant volcanic peaks. You could rent a car and drive on the rugged unpaved roads up to the  crater. Hop on a free shuttle to see Rainbow Falls.

Or take that same complimentary shuttle to Black Sand Beach in Hilo to swim with the turtles. From the ship you can watch humpback whales splash playfully. Ukelele music, fresh pineapples, monstrous swells, a cozy beach under a radiant sun:  these options are always readily available.  When surrounded by this every single day, how can anyone be sad?  It happens, I assure you, and it happens a lot.

Many of my coworkers complain endlessly about working long hours. They whine about needy guests with specific (and inconvenient) requests. They bicker about nitpicking managers and lazy employees and the subpar food in the crew mess and the disfunctional driers that take two hours to dry a soggy load fresh out of the broken washer that won't drain. The list is endless.  

To be fair, I am guilty of bouts of pessimism as well, and the lifestyle has its difficulties.  Working every single day for five months straight is strenuous.  To be surrounded by cranky employees can be emotionally draining.  And the guests can be frustrating, too, when they leave a table piled high with dirty dishes of half-eaten food.  Laundry is often a hassle. I have to check several laundrettes to find an open washer, and often the floor is covered with water as a result of my fellow shipmates who don't understand that the water must drain before opening the door.  The food is often disgusting, and the managers can be a bunch of nagging slave drivers. But, hey, let's look at the bright side. 

The job is simple, and we are paid reasonably well for exerting little effort. I don't pay for rent, utilities, meals, or laundry. Everything I need is free, and I can save up a lot of money in a short period of time.  The work schedule may be repetitive and monotonous, but Hawaii never gets old.

I've heard of the island blues from a Kenny Chesney song called "Round and Round." The country singer remarks that we always want to be somewhere we're not. Even if you're on a sunny beach in Hawaii, it is possible to feel stuck on an island and to feel trapped in a seemingly endless circle of repetition.  Our continuous loop around the world's most isolated archipelago is a perfect microcosm of our own battles against boredom in our daily routines.  

Happiness has nothing to do with location. Millions of tourists visit Hawaii each year to escape the harshness of winter, but the sandy beaches, colorful fishes, and rocky coastline views won't solve your problems. Beauty alone cannot shatter pessimism. A sad sack can be miserable anywhere just as an optimist can be exhilarated in unfavorable conditions.

Life onboard the ship has taught me the importance of maintaining a high morale. Working with so many irritable people can be stressful, if you let their depression affect your mood.  I tune them out.  I have come to expect a certain amount of chaos in the workplace, so I am not upset when things don't go my way.  I do my best to avoid obstacles, overcome challenges as quickly as possible and flee toward comfort.  Moments of discomfort are inevitable, but fleeting. Once the conflict is in the past, there is no need to reopen a wound.  I let go of every mistake and rejoice that I survived another day. I have survived every day of my life so far, and that fact comforts me to believe I can endure my current struggle. I will crawl into bed yet again and wake up to a new day.

I took this job because I was curious to work on a cruise ship, but I also wanted to rapidly save money to pay for a three month hike on the Appalachian Trail.  When I'm working a triple shift, my feet are aching, and I get an eight-top and must wait thirty minutes for their entrees inside a steamy kitchen full of irritated line cooks and impatient waiters, I imagine myself plodding down a quiet and shaded path surrounded by nobody but the trees.  Having a goal helps me wake up in the morning, eager to earn money and then get off the ship to play. 

When guests ask me what I think about working on the ship, I can never give them a simple answer.  Overall, I am giddy inside to have this opportunity. I never imagined myself being here, and the unplanned nature of this adventure only amplifies the thrill.  I love being able to say, "The company paid for my flight," because it makes me feel like I occupy an important position, even though I'm only delivering food.  Some rich person finds me significant enough to buy me a plane ticket.  

I love opening doors that have signs saying RESTRICTED ACCESS:  CREW ONLY.  I love climbing up the stairs, listening to the metallic clang of my footfalls reverberate as I pretend I'm fleeing the Pirates from the movie Captain Phillips.  I love interacting with guests who come from all over the world.  I love miming and pointing to menu selections with Japanese tourists who speak no English.  I love practicing my French with Montrealers and Tahitians who laugh at my ridiculous wording and inevitable mistakes.  I love wearing sunglasses to work as I bus tables in the outside lounge and tell a guest,  "This is easy living, brother.  Check out the view from my office."  

I try to have fun at my job.  I'm not performing manual labor; I'm playing a game:  How fast can I run to the kitchen and round up these appetizers?  My job is a workout.  I carry heavy trays and bus tubs, so there is no need to hit up the gym.  My job is social hour, a cultural center, and a Zen dojo.

I provide the best service I can in a sincere manner, and I try to make life easier for my coworkers by emitting a positive attitude, but I don't take the job too seriously.  I do whatever it takes to survive each day.  I do what I can when I can.  I'm not Superman, and I'm not a nuclear physicist.  If I bump into someone and shatter a tray full of wine glasses, I grab a dust pan and sweep up the fragments and throw them away.  I forget about my mistakes, failures, embarrassments of yesterday, and I don't even think about tomorrow.  

When I clock out, I don't care if my coworkers were slacking or if my managers pestered me. That is their nature, and I cannot change that, so I may as well make peace with their habits.  I don't want to relive those moments of annoyance, and I don't want to share my negativity with someone who doesn't want to hear my complaints.  Complaining is a waste of time when you're off the clock. 

I soak up the precious moments between  shifts and forget about the job.  My free time seems to stretch onward to eternity because I focus entirely on the present moment.  I immerse myself into a novel.  Music sounds sweeter.  The sunlight revives me.  

The ship sails onward in its endless loop as I search for new details amidst the growing monotony.  As we leave port, I realize that's one more day finished, and I'm that much closer to going home. I'm always aware of the time on my watch, the days I have left on my contract.  I also realize that when I'm older I'll look back on these days. I don't want to recount stories of constant nagging. I'd rather have stories worth retelling.