(Life & Love in the Bowels of a Cruise Ship)
"My mother was a worker. My father was a worker. That's how I was raised, but the economy started to fall apart when capitalism took hold. Now there's nothing for me. I am a Serbian, but I live in Croatia where my people are discriminated against and cannot find jobs." Aleksander's face is expressionless, but he looks down at his bottle of beer. A hip-hop video plays on a flat screen across the room. We turn away and hide in the dim light at the far corner of the bar.
"Can I buy you another?" He asks me. "It's the least I can do for making you fit my schedule." I nod. Aleksander has finally switched from the night shift (5 PM to 5AM) and we are celebrating our rare occasion to hang out. At days when I would get up early to see the sunrise, he was just heading off to sleep. Even so, it is late in the evening and he now has to get up at 6 in the morning, but he's making an exception for me.
"I'm 32, I'm not a kid anymore… And I don't know how much more I can take. I've got to figure something out. Look Dave, I'm an assistant waiter!" I have never heard Aleksander laugh, and seldom seen him smile. Though seriousness seems to be a part of the culture of these Eastern European countries transitioning to capitalism, it's about achieving your dreams too. For my friend, as he tells me, he'd simply like to have a family and be able to support them. "I cannot do this as an assistant waiter, but maybe if I transition to Guest Services…"
"Yes, you can do better Aleksander!" He nods appreciatively. Despite his stone face, his eyes are warm and sad and I immediately regret my remark as quite naive. He was telling me he was capable of more and I was telling him he could do more. I have come to understand that these are two very different things. Here, on this ship, even close friends when talking about European politics or age-old cultural rivalries make excuses for me. "Don't worry, he's an American." As if ignorance and being an American go hand in hand.
It was not where I chose to be in life, trolling the Caribbean on one-week itineraries to Mexico, Belize, and a whole host of tropical islands, but it was, as I would often tell vacationers, "not a bad way to hide from the recession." For half a year, I worked, ate, slept, and spent my life in the bowels of a cruise ship. Spanning a length over three football fields, with clientele numbering above 3,000 turning over every week, and a crew of over 1,000 coming from over 50 countries, it was a veritable international city on the sea.
I first met Aleksander during our many orientation sessions the day after boarding the ship. I was a "sign-on" for the Audiovisual Department and met with sign-ons from several other departments: kitchen, spa, casino, garbage, etc; a new group of us processed and trained every week. Despite the balding corporate trainer, Steve, being very friendly and my bunkmate in our claustrophobic cabin, these sessions always left a bad taste in my mouth. Steve would play the excruciatingly cheezeball "It Just Takes A Hello!" hospitality video, preach the zero tolerance policy for drunkenness and drinking on the job, and even rap: "We're in the E. O. Z. (Yeah, you know me)." "E.O.Z." equals "English Only Zone" equals "strange languages make American customers ("guests") uncomfortable." Steve once went to L.A. with a feature screenplay in hand. "How did that go?" I asked. "I'm thirty-five and I'm still working here. What do you think?"
It was during the "Guests Appreciate Your Smile!TM" Power Point that I first noticed Aleksander. In fact, our trainer pointed him out. "Now some cultures like yours sir, may not be accustomed to smiling, but here on the ship we have a different culture. We expect to see a smile. It is a way we acknowledge each other and show we like someone, and doesn't it feel good to be liked?" The question was more than rhetorical, said with the weight that a 3rd grade teacher says, "Good morning class." The sign-ons make strange mumbles of agreement. I'm not sure the Indonesians know what is going on, but they are grinning from ear to ear. While I reason to myself the pros and cons of required smiling, I look over at Alecksander's unfriendly demeanor. "What an ogre," I think.
"Oh, and one other thing – no complaining. Our guests paid for a vacation and want to feel good, and it wouldn't make them feel good to hear your boo-hoo, poor me, I work too hard, I miss my family stories. We are not forcing you to be here are we? Anyone here is free to go home anytime they like."
How hard were they going to work me? They told me an average of seventy hours a week, but I learned that for many crewmembers it is much more. Though primarily catering to an American market, the cruise ships all fly a flag of convenience that allows them to avoid the higher operating costs and the government regulation surrounding reasonable work hours. I ask a Canadian woman "Do you feel your human rights have been violated?" and receive an unequivocal "Yes." A doctor tells me it's common to see crewmembers feigning illness so they can get some sleep. My ship flew a Panamanian flag; all but ironic considering our history of military intervention in that country. It may be hypocritical of us Americans to create social policies to protect ourselves from abusive labor practices and then create a global situation so that it does not apply to anyone else, but if we need our beer-soaked vacations, then so be it.
Having served in the Peace Corps, and slept in the company of rats, bats, cockroaches, and masturbating adolescents, I feel I have the authority to say that adapting to ship life is rough. Grown men have been known to cry, and I can painfully recall one particular hour where I sat on the shower floor, my legs stretched out to the other side of my bathroom, with not a friend in the world and hopelessly out to sea.
Work was not going well. There's quite a difference between the video work I've done on land and the video I had to do at sea. "Don't worry. It's easy, you can't fuck up" my Romanian boss told me in response to my battery of questions. I was to shoot a 3-hour Catamaran snorkeling cruise in St. Maarten. I brought back an hour's worth of footage, and proudly started capturing it using our antiquated editing software. My boss looks over my shoulder. "None of this looks any good. You don't know how to use a video camera. I'll edit this. You go to sleep." He was always telling me to go sleep. It was only 8 pm.
"It gets better dude, I promise," says Steve back in the cabin.
"Oh yeah?" I respond. "When?"
"Honestly, I started feeling at home the first time I got drunk. You should come out to the disco tonight." This coming from the guy that just told me that I will get kicked off the ship if I am drunk. I call him on his hypocritical statement, but all he says is "It helps to be friends with the security guards."
So that night, I put on my suite and badge with my name and nationality (required at all times everywhere). Steve comments on my assertiveness with an "Awww, yeah" which is his response to most things. We stroll across the promenade on deck five, but a mug-faced security guard with poor English stops us at the door. He tugs at his collar, points a finger at me, and says, "review required look card."
"What's he talking about Steve? Do I need a tie?"
"I guess so."
"Review required look guard," the guard repeats louder.
"Aren't you supposed to know stuff like that as the corporate trainer?" Steve just shrugs.
The security guard steps closer to intimidate me, "Review required look card." These must be the only words he knows. I get the picture and return later with a tie.
The disco is a world completely unto itself. Steve introduces me to the players. "There's the officers – mostly Italian. Don't hang out with them. They're all dicks. Let me give you an example: what's so great about have sex with twenty nine year olds?" I give. "There are twenty of them. Hardy har har! Tell that to them, I guarantee they'll laugh their asses off." The officers all stand around the bar.
"Why don't they sit down?" I ask.
"On the ship guests always get priority. They keep the seats open in case a guest would like to sit down."
"But no one is going to sit down, they're blocking all of the seats."
"Yes, but that's the rule."
"Ok." I'm still trying to get the lay of the land. A group of giggly girls on the dance floor catches my eye. "And those girls over there? What do they do?"
"Those are the spa girls. A great bunch overall, but we sometimes call them sharpeners. As in, 'it's safer to stick your dick in a…" On closer inspection, some of the girls had heavy blue eye shadow. Even my girlfriend (whom I met months later), a spa girl but not a sharpener still had some major highlights. It seemed to be a rite of passage for every "normal" looking girl that joined the spa department.
By this time, I am feeling quite ignorant about cruise ship culture and Steve just seems to know a little too much. I suspected he was greatly embellishing. So I presented a challenge. "Ok Steve, which group am I in?" That looked like it stumped him. He thought for a moment. "Well, you're A/V which is a really small department. There are only three of you. Hate to say it dude, but you probably get bunched in to the Tech department. Kind of geeky, but don't worry dude. You're still new here, so just consider yourself fresh meat."
Steve left for the bar. Neither of us wanted me to be a leech, but not knowing too many people, I looked awkwardly around for a place to go. At one side of the disco were a bunch of tall tables that people just stood and mingled. It looked like a good place to start. Not wanting to place too much stock in Steve's stereotypes I took my place next to a guy about my age. He was an officer, standing very poised and looking out at the dance floor. "Kind of like a pigeon," I thought.
Well, one has to start somewhere right? "How's it going?" I ask. The officer nods his head, but doesn't break his gaze. I try again, "how long have you been on the ship." This time, I don't even get the nod. He completely ignores me. I turn and look at what the officer is looking at out on the dance floor: girls. He was posturing himself just so to emit a mating signal across the dance floor and I was creating interference. I would see the same guy around the ship in the early morning, usually with one of the top crew beauties under his arm. It occurred to me that he had qualities a lot of girls loved: young, an officer, Italian, and a complete asshole.
I soon became acquainted with a group of friendly guys. Brendan welcomed me to the ship and paid for a round. Jack introduced me to a dancer from Australia and another from Eastern Europe. We seemed to have instant rapport, which I could not understand. Certainly, these guys seemed strange combination. Jack, for instance, was always talking about the dancers, but I was pretty sure he was gay. On a later occasion, another spirit-filled night, I just couldn't take it anymore. Jack was quite explicit in his intentions for one of the dancer. Admittedly, I was at my limit, "Jack are you gay or what?" Jack went a little red in the face. Brendan stepped into to explain, "It's quite elementary really. I'm a straight man that likes to talk about penises. Jack's a gay man that likes to talk about vaginas." Though I didn't realize it that first night, by some unseen natural social vibrations, I had indeed fallen in with the techs.
That first night at the disco ended, like my memories of the ship: bittersweet. The most beautiful and physically skillful dancers had decided to suss me out. Perhaps I am misremembering their legs draped over me as the lights go up and Steve comes to retrieve me and help me walk straight when we get near security. As we head back to our cabin, I make another inquiry. "You never told the about the dancers. That blonde that kept fiddling with my tie, what's her…"
"Sorry bro," Steve cuts me off, "all lesbians."
It's past three for sure. I head down to the crew mess for a late night snack. I see Aleksander in the distance, stacking cups. Always stacking cups, or changing out the buffet trays. It's 3 am. This was when he was still working the night shift.
His eyes light up when he sees me. "Hey Dave."
"Hey man, you got a minute?" I grab a slice of pie from the line. The good stuff always comes out late at night. Remaining dishes from the guests' restaurant above I suspect. Aleksander finishes clearing a counter and comes over and sits with me. We sit in a booth like we might in some forgotten little diner, but a light from the deck twelve stories up shines down into the black water coursing right below our portholes. I am constantly reminded of how small we are: two guys having a late night conversation in an empty cafeteria while plowing through the blackness of the boundless sea.
"Having fun?" Aleksander comments with a smile. Apparently I am not as straight as I thought I could be.
I had a fantastic night. So I lie. "Oh yeah, I guess. Had to check out the disco. It was kind of cool. How's your shift going?"
"You know. Never changes."
"Yeah."
It's hard to breach the basic disconnect between us. I am "staff" and Aleksander is "crew." Even when he isn't working, Aleksander is stuck below. He does not have "guest area privileges" like I do. He is not allowed to go into the disco. If he wants to watch the sunrise, he will do it on the crew level at the front of the ship. He can't stand on the Lido deck and take in the view like I can. His lifestyle is vastly different than mine. He does not walk freely among and interact with the guests. The color and the glitz of Promenade deck, the glee of children splashing in the pools, the raunchy laughter of the piano bar... he doesn't see that side of the ship.
The truth is, though, that the parties aren't everything. This ship is a waterborne beast and alcohol runs through its veins. The bartenders, cabin stewards, guest service personnel, and assistant waiters are the heart that makes this vessel go. I wouldn't trade those fleeting conversations with him for all the parties in the world. For brief moments, in between his work and his sleep, I saw a man dreaming, hoping, rationalizing, planning, striving. I saw many, crushed under the weight of the work, but when I looked them in the eyes, so very alive.
I stumble back to my room as the ship rises and falls in swells. I pass a cross-legged man sitting in a quiet corner meditating. I climb the ladder to the top bunk and press my earplugs in deep. I can still hear Steve's alcohol-induced snoring, and above that the booming of the waves as they smash into the front of the ship, rattle and shake my cabin in ways that the guests in the mid-ship will never experience, and gently rock me to sleep.
My experience changes drastically a little over halfway through my contract. Her name is Jo. She's the acupuncturist in the spa. Every "Fun Day at Sea" I operate camera for a live feed of the cruise director making the routine announcements of the day, spouting off the promotions, and reading the anniversary, birthday, shout-out announcements to the waking guests. Every Wednesday since I began, Jo would come on the show to push needles into the cruise director or any of his unsuspecting guests. Now it's just the same, except that somewhere during her walk to the door after she exits the show, she smiles at me. No one else sees it. We're both happy.
On the ship, the difference between a newbie and an old-timer is about three months. If you're an American you'll get a six-month contract, if you're Indonesian it will be an eight-month contract. You can extend up to ten months. By now I am an old-timer, and I hold onto the friends I have, and am hesitate to reveal my expiration date to the new guys, lest they decide I'm not worth their time.
For a moment, I was on top of it all. A walk down the I-95, the main throughway on Deck 0, was a social circus. It was hand-pound after hand-pound. I could just hang out there all day catching up. But the faces in the crew bar have changed now, and when I go in people say "hey man, where you been?" I just shrug. They know where I've been…
Jo and I first started talking in this very same place. I did not go out of my way to talk to her; I seldom went out of my way to meet women. Too much of me was holding on to the past to embrace the future. My friends might simplify the issue to a need to "grow some balls." Nonetheless, I managed to hold down a conversation and as the minutes flew by, friends drifted away until it was just the two of us talking about qi and spirituality. Though she may have suspected some insincerity in me later, the truth is that I had never been so interested in acupuncture. As she giggled and spoke to me in her sexy British / South African accent, I somehow realized I was in a lot of pain. My shoulder was aching from holding that big expensive camera all day, could she perhaps take a look at it? Can anyone blame me for trying?
The few friendships that didn't start in the bar, found their way there eventually. I came in one night to order one Jack and Coke, just to put in the face time, just to show up, to convince myself I was making some effort to socialize, when Shy, a boyish Indian, showed up at my side. "This drink's on me mate. I never see you out."
"Oh yeah, we must just miss each other, I come down here a couple of times a week." Not really.
"Why don't you join me and my friend Anita over there."
"Ok," I made my way to their table. I can't quite recall what we talked about because we got piss drunk. Shy was a cocky young art steward whose line for the ladies was simply "Hello, I'm Shy." He could run with it from there. Anita was a serious Croatian photographer who had more stamina to party through the night than I can ever imagine having myself. I cannot explain how it happened, but in a matter of hours we became fast friends.
Anita & Shy posing
Jo sees her patients every Sea Day from 8 am until 9 pm. Afterwards she sees me. We usually stay in. Occasionally I'll convince her to watch a movie on my computer. Sometimes she'll feed me some of her vegan-friendly chocolate. Most of the time though, we lay around doing absolutely nothing. When we ride the sky car to a gorgeous view of the bay in St. Thomas, she lets me put my arm around her. She comes with me as I video a sunset snorkeling catamaran tour in St. Maarten and though we are prohibited from showing public displays of affection in front of the guests, our hands still manage to touch. Somewhere between scuba diving in Mexico, and kissing in a waterfall-hidden cave in Jamaica, time speeds up.
"What happens next?" she says to me in not so many words. "We need to just be friends," she tells me in an effort at self-preservation. "I know ship life. I know what happens." There are tears in her eyes. We've had a good run. Most aren't so lucky.
My new supervisor shakes his head and tells me I did it all wrong. He explains his strategy. "I have a list, you see, of all the crew members and their sign-off dates. You just pick the girl with the closest sign-off date and bang her. Then when she leaves, you bang the next one on the list, and so on. Quite systematic." On the other end of the spectrum is the story of the spa girl and a jazz trumpeter that fell madly in love. The trumpeter couldn't carry his weight with the band, so one day back in the U.S. port he gets a knock at his door at 6 am. It's security. They tell him to pack his bags. He's off the ship by 11am. From what I know, it is the official policy to fire you the morning of your departure so you don't do something crazy – like throw yourself off the ship. I would sometimes pass the spa girl in the halls. She couldn't keep mascara on for days.
Jo and I have sign-off dates a week a part. "It's going to be so hard without you." She squeezes me tighter. "Everyone I know is gone." After what seems like forever, the end has come so suddenly, but not too soon. The faces on the ship have all changed since I began. It's my time to go. We have a get together in the crew bar and my friends all come to see me off. They talk about all of the embarrassing things I did, and tell me I'm always welcome to their houses if I am in their part of the world.
We talk about the parties and the good times. Memories like the water party on the top deck; a mixture of alcohol and water balloons. For a moment we were all kids again, and telling someone you liked her was as simple as pegging her with a water balloon. If she liked you too, you would have to duck. Your boss was sure to get what was coming to him. We talked about the wedding between the spa manager and the photographer in St. Thomas. The night of the reception the Chef de Cuisine made the most delicious spread I have ever seen. We all danced until late.
My friends are all "staff" now. It's easier. We eat together. We work together. We work similar hours. During a lull in the conversation, I notice Aleksander's absence. "I'm sorry I cannot make it to the bar Dave," he explained earlier that day, "I'm back on the night shift."
"But you hated the night shift."
"It is better for me there. It is quieter. If I stayed in guest dining they said they were going to promote me to a waiter position, but I don't sing or dance. I don't enjoy that."
It's getting late. I give a round of hugs coupled with promises to keep in touch and I wave a last goodbye. It's time for bed… after one late night snack that is. I know where Aleksander will be, and sure enough, as I enter the vacant mess hall, he is in the back stacking cups just like it was six months ago and we were brand new; as if he simply never stopped.
We say our goodbyes in one of the booths. He extends his hand to me. "So, Eastern European's don't hug huh?
"Ok, Dave, for you." We try. We knock heads.
"I guess not!" I laugh as he picks up a washrag.
"I am sorry. I only had five minutes, I'm not on break."
"That's alright." I tell him I understand, although I am not sure that I do. Despite my efforts, I feel I have come short. Just as the guests above know little about how over a thousand human beings make this ship go, I feel the staff also are generally unaware of what life feels like for a crewmember. A sobering thought crosses my minds and lingers with me still: that ignorance is bliss and that it is the nature of man to be blissful. Any change in the world must take into account that we cannot help but ignore what discomforts us.
Only when the cruise ship shrinks down to the size of my thumb as I look out the bus window do I realize how tiny it all really is. Six months of my life eating, sleeping, working, and loving in one floating building. And what have I gained? Some numbers changed slightly on my banking statement. They'll change back again real soon. Some stories for the folks back home. Friends I can count on one hand that may very well last a lifetime. A few light creases on my face born of late nights and alcohol. Wisdom and understanding? I'd call it appreciation and respect.
Tonight my ship will be sailing on course to Nassau in The Bahamas without me on it; not a man missing. And months from now it will still be trekking through the blackness of night at a constant rate of 26 mph. My friends, the brothers from Tobago, will be playing Bob Marley on Lido Deck under a string of lights. On Deck 4 Forward, a woman will be standing at the bow. She will be singing a song to herself in a language from halfway around the world. Though I never understood the words, and do not hear it now, the melody remains.
