All the Roadrunning

Four days ago, I sent one of my staff members on an innocent mission to the Carpenter’s Workshop in order to borrow a phillips head screwdriver.  The team had unanimously decided to dismantle and re-construct the shelving system located inside of our storage locker on deck #2.  Born into creation partly because the organizational system needed some improvement, this plan also had the added benefit of giving my team something to do.  As our days pass by without even a blip of difference from the previous one, in the midst of a stretch of sea day after sea day after sea day, I am struggling to keep the soldiers occupied.  All of their necessary work is usually completed by 10:00am, which is only one hour after their day began.   

With a screwdriver in hand, we spent an entire afternoon removing shelves and hooks and cabinets, making a terrible mess while experimenting with new designs until we found the most efficient setup.  We actually finished our re-building work within a couple of hours of starting the project and as a result no longer had any need for the trusty screwdriver.  But as things happen, my laziness kept me from walking across the crew corridor on Deck 1 and down the three flights of stairs that lead to the Carpenter Shop.  And so the screwdriver ended up sitting on the desk in my cabin instead, for three days actually, right there next to a stack of plastic cups and a small bucket full of pens and paper clips.  It probably would have remained there for many more a day as well had I not received a particular phone call this morning from one unhappy man who was most likely wearing blue coveralls at the time. 

The carpenter on the other end of the line simply wanted his screwdriver back, the one that he had so graciously lent us.  He asked me when I planned on returning his tool, repeating several times, “I need that screwdriver back today!”  Soon enough, his passionate pleas began to affect me greatly and I began admonishing myself for thinking that this piece of metal had little value in the grand scheme of things.  The carpenter had now made it quite clear – this one screwdriver was the only reason that this ship remained afloat!   

As I hung up the phone, I found myself quite troubled that one single screwdriver held so much power.  Were there no other phillips head screwdrivers on board?  We are not working and living on board a rowboat, this is the largest ocean liner in the world, a 150,000 ton vessel with 15 decks, 1700 cabins, 10 eating establishments, over a dozen bars, an abundance of meeting rooms, 4 swimming pools, a theatre, a planetarium and hundreds of offices, closets and cabinets (and don’t forget that kennel full of cats and dogs!).  But despite all of this, and despite all of the 100,000 screws that are responsible for securing all of the above, I was fascinated at the prospect of there being only one screwdriver on the entire ship. 

With head hung low, I finally made my way to Deck B, the lowest deck there is, and into the carpenter’s office.  He immediately grabbed the tool from my hand.  “My screwdriver, thank you!” he blurted out as he ever so gently placed it back into his soft, worn out leathery tool bag. All I could do was offer a quick apology and walk right out.   

On my way back upstairs I stopped in the Officer’s Mess for a cup of green tea, deciding to take a short break before returning to my office.  While sipping my tea, I noticed that the chair in which I sat had a loose arm rest, the table wobbled clumsily and a wheel on the tea trolley was about to fall off.  And I felt ashamed – the ship was falling apart because of my irresponsibility.   

I turned towards the window and stared out at the ocean for awhile, just watching the calm rolling waves, thinking how the ocean was in perfect order because these waves were exactly where they were supposed to be.  And before long that thought alone brought me enough comfort to return to my office and continue my day.  With the screwdriver now returned to its proper place in the world, all would soon be in perfect order on board our legendary vessel as well.

The passengers were being brutal, complaining non-stop about the excursions they had participated in earlier in the day.  Whether it was the sandwiches they were served or the broken compass on the catamaran which ‘posed a serious danger’ to their lives, you would have thought that Tortola more closely resembled a war-torn wasteland than a beautiful tropical island.  The line of angry guests wrapped half way around the circular Grand Lobby of the ship and every single one of them seemed to have their arms crossed, waiting for their turn to unleash their frustrations on myself and my two colleagues. 

After almost two hours of standing at the counter of our Tour Office on board the Queen Mary 2, listening and nodding and forcing myself to smile, my feet hurt and I just wanted to take a break.  But that was simply not possible, as there was no indication that the line of guests was about to shorten any time soon.  By this point, my face no longer hid the frustration it held, my replies grew shorter and blunter, my willingness to repeat the same answers over and over again rapidly faded. 

But then, just as I began the old ‘questioning what I am doing here’ routine, I heard a voice, one that was heavily-accented, of European descent, of a female, an oddly familiar yet not too familiar voice. 

“Hello, is this the place to book a private tour of St. Lucia?” was all it said.   

I looked straight in front of me, I glanced to the left and to the right, but I could not find a person anywhere in sight whose voice could have sounded like this.   There were mostly men, angry men, standing in line and the only woman in the vicinity was speaking to my colleague in an unmistakably Long Island accent.  I stood there intrigued and confused. 

And then I heard the voice one more time.  Suddenly, a small hand and then a thin arm slowly rose up over the counter, offering itself to me in greeting.  I leaned over as much as possible, wanting to know who this arm and hand and voice belonged to.  Instantly, I recognized the smiling person in front of me, even before she spoke again.   

“Hello, my name is Dr. Ruth,” she said. 

All of the day’s problems immediately disappeared as I soon found myself sitting in the lobby organizing Dr. Ruth’s private tours and listening to her tell amusing stories about her travels and her work while offering an endless stream of sexual jokes.  Barely a minute would go by without her bursting into a fit of laughter, causing myself and everyone else in the area to join in.  After this initial meeting I found myself in a wonderful mood for the remainder of the voyage, drawing from the unwavering positive energy Dr. Ruth naturally projected.

 Over the next week, she requested to meet me every morning at 8am (not in that way!) in the Grand Lobby so that we could re-confirm her plans for the day.  I would then escort her off the ship and to her waiting vehicle in each port of call.  And as she also requested, when her private tours returned to the pier, there I would be, waiting to accompany her back onto the vessel.  She even gave me the nickname of “Bodyguard”, a title that brought with it a significant amount of teasing from many of the other crew on board.  But I knew that they were simply jealous, wishing that they could be the ones walking around the ship arm in arm with this famous therapist.   

Dr. Ruth often pulled me along the corridors as the speed with which she took her tiny strides outpaced my normal walking pace.  She stopped every few seconds, generously accommodating every photo or autograph request while handing out bright yellow key chains that stated “Sex for Dummies” to every single person she came in contact with, both guests and crew members.   

On the final morning of her voyage, I brought Dr. Ruth through the immigration inspection on board the ship, having to convince her that it was acceptable for her to cut the line and proceed directly to the front.  As we passed the hundreds of waiting guests, she greeted every single one of them in her delightful voice, leaving smiles on the faces of all these people who would ordinarily have been quite upset in the midst of their long wait.  She tugged my arm, shouted “Derek, let’s go, let’s go, let’s go” and then she would stop to chat or sign her name.  This repeated itself several times before we finally arrived in front of the immigration officer.   

And then she handed over her passport and announced as loud as ever, “I am Dr. Ruth, nice to meet you” causing everyone in the room, including the officer, to crack a smile. 

Moments before she walked off the ship, Dr. Ruth gave me her business card and asked to have a photograph taken together with me.  She then gave me her home telephone number and told me to contact her the next time I was in Manhattan so that we could meet for lunch. 

I’ve been to New York City several times since but I have never called. 

So here I am today, another day at sea on the Atlantic Ocean, one that began exactly the same as all of the previous hundreds I have been a part of.  The morning hours passed by slowly as I communicated with tour operators about our upcoming calls to Southampton and Hamburg, organizing tours to Stonehenge, London and Berlin.     

After lunch I walked back up to my office, wondering what kind of emails I would have to answer and what problems I would have to resolve.  Dreading the upcoming afternoon hours, I rested my hand on the doorknob before entering.     

“Derek!” I suddenly heard.  And there she was again, Dr. Ruth Westheimer, psychosexual expert, there to save the day one more time.  

As we are three days into our westward transatlantic crossing, there is little difference now between the days. Just to provide a glimpse into this repetitive daily routine, I have outlined a typical day as a Tour Manager on the Queen Mary 2 during a transatlantic crossing from Southampton, UK to New York City (or vice versa):

5:45am – the automatic porthole washer begins its high-pressure spraying and cleaning of my porthole, providing the first indication that the start of the work day is in fact near

7:45am – 8:30am – my alarm sounds and out of bed I rise; I trip over the ledge that leads into the bathroom, take a shower and dress myself in my white officer’s uniform

8:31am – begin the walk out of my cabin, along the corridor, down three flights on the ‘A’ crew stairwell to Deck 1, along the main crew corridor that runs the entire length of the ship, passing doors and other stairwells and crew cabins and a few offices until I reach the guest ‘B’ stairwell, which I take to Deck 2, and then proceed to walk from the starboard side of the ship to the port side, turn left in front of the main theatre and in another thirty feet, arrive at my office

8:37am – check my emails – read through the night reports of all the fights, rowdy passengers (and rowdy crew) and any other incidents that needed to be reported – answer a few of the important emails (i.e. the Food & Beverage Manager asking how many guests will be off the ship in New York over the lunch period or a tour operator asking me to confirm that we will not sell any more transfers to JFK because the bus is now full)

8:42am – proceed back down to Deck 1 and to the Officer’s Mess to get a cup of green tea

8:50am – back in the office, answering some more emails (such as when the Crew Office asks for the original receipt from the medical exam I had to undergo in order to join the ship so that they can reimburse me or the tour operator in Hamburg asking how many shuttle buses into the city I will need for our call on the 30th of July)

9:00am – walk across the Grand Lobby outside of my office to the ‘other office’ of our department where my team works; we huddle, I bark out the game plan and then we clap hands and fall into formation. For them this means the start of our opening hours where guests line up to ask us strange and silly questions; for me this means another cup of green tea

9:06am – I sit in my office and do some work, email questions to tour operators, update invoices, prepare reports, create tour booking forms, etc

11:30am – waking up with drool across my cheek and desk, I go back over to the other office, help the girls out (my team is all female) by standing at the desk and getting yelled at because all the ship offers on Sunday is a Catholic Mass or because their toilet overflowed or because they were promised by their travel agent that they would have three complementary bottle of wine in their stateroom but only received two. On occasion a guest actually wants to book a transfer to the airport or a tour of Manhattan or Stonehenge or has a genuine inquiry regarding the disembarkation procedures upon arrival in New York or Southampton

12:00pm – the ‘other office’ closes and we finish up any unfinished morning business

12:15pm – Lunch time – the whole team walks down to the Officer’s Mess, picks up the menu and acts surprised that yet again there is nothing edible on it. And so we all eat salad and the occasional bread roll

1:00pm – we all take a break and I retreat to my cabin where I lie down in my bed, read a few pages of my book or watch a movie, although I am quite disappointed that the seven movie channels on board are still playing the exact same movies that they played when I was here last, six months ago. But nevertheless, I still rely on “A Few Good Men” and “Freedom Writers” to take my mind away from work for a few moments

2:30pm – I return to the office, answer some more emails and get another cup of green tea

3:00pm – the other office opens once again for the afternoon desk hours but I remain in my quiet refuge, listening to the psychotic tunes of the slot machines mixed together with the Motown songs piping into the lobby, and trying to send a few more emails, preparing for our next port and attempting to determine how many tours we should offer in German next time we are in Southampton considering that we will have 750 Germans on board

3:27pm (this time may vary) – at some point, or more likely at several points, throughout the afternoon, my phone rings and I am summoned to the other side to deal with an upset guest. They couldn’t find the transfer bus from the airport to the ship, they want to know why our bus to Newark arrives at 3pm when their flight is at 10pm and they demand compensation because the hotel room they stayed at in London as part of their pre-cruise package had a dirty sink. I listen, nod my head, think of how nice it would be to go on a safari in Africa or if I have enough clean socks to last me through the current voyage and then I inform them, with my most sincerely concerned face, that I will look into the situation and get back to them

5:00pm – the other office closes and I wander over to see how everything is going but also to join the team in eating chocolate stolen from the housekeeping office

5:15pm – we settle down to work, to send tour counts to the tour operators, to book private sedans, to send letters to the guests informing them where to meet on the morning of arrival into port for their tour of Manhattan with 45 minutes of free time at the Herald Square Macy’s

7:00pm – by this time we are usually finished with our work – I have sent all of my necessary emails, have prepared for the following day and have phoned back all of the complaining guests from the previous day to let them know that it is the weekend and as a result I have yet to receive feedback regarding their issue from our head office and so if they could kindly bear with me, I will definitely get back to them on Monday once I hear back from my superiors. And of course I appreciate their patience very much.

In all actuality, however, there was no email sent to my superiors. I already know what compensation I will give but if I give it too soon then word will spread fast among these gossiping guests and soon everyone will have a complaint and be seeking money. The old ‘it’s the weekend’ or ‘I am waiting to hear from my superiors’ trick, buys me necessary time so that I can phone them on the last day of the voyage and tell them that I have credited their account for 25% of the cost of their transfer or tour and that any further issues should be directed to our Guest Relations department shore side.

7:20pm – I am in the passenger gym, staring my workout on the cross-training machine – I had run from my office straight to my cabin, changed into proper gym-attire, grabbed my mp3 player and ran up 6 flights of stairs to reach the fancy gym on Deck 7

8:05pm – I finish my 45 minute intense workout – having always chosen the “Around the World” hill program on the cross-trainer in order to maximize the challenge

8:09pm – I quickly shower and change back into my uniform

8:31pm – I leave my cabin and walk down the stairs, along the main corridor and into the Officer’s Mess, arriving only 26 minutes before it closes

8:34pm – I dine, usually alone at this time, choosing to wind down from the day’s work and the gym in peace, not in the mood to engage in forced chatting while eating cannelloni and onion rings for the third straight night

9:00pm – Leaving the mess, I make my way up to the office, quickly check my emails to make sure that nothing urgent (such as suddenly not having enough buses for the next day’s tours or finding out that the Prince of Qatar suddenly wants a private limo for 7am the next morning) has been sent my way

9:20pm – I remove my uniform, change into normal clothes and once again lie down in my bed

9:22pm – I open my book
9:24pm – I close my book
9:24pm – I water the bamboo plants on my windowsill that have been there since the ship came into existence in 2004
9:25pm – I lie back down
9:26pm – I stare at the wall
9:43pm – I get up and turn on some music, usually staring with “Nobody Left to Run With Anymore” by the Allman Brothers.
9:50pm – I turn off the music and turn on the television
9:51pm – I brush my teeth and take out my contact lenses
9:54pm – I set the time on my phone one hour forward or one hour back depending on which direction across the ocean we are headed; I set the alarm
9:55pm – I take a swig of Crystal Geyser Spring Water and turn off the lights

9:55pm – 5:45am – I wake up many times throughout the night, my brain confused and unable to determine if and how much it should be sleeping as I have now been on board for 11 nights and have already had 9 time changes

***I will actually break from the norm today. Dinner in the mess will be replaced by ‘Gurkha Curry Night’, a biweekly event in which the Nepali security team cooks and serves a feast of curries for the officers and other select crew to enjoy. It is a most welcome evening by all in attendance, offering the tastiest food that we could possibly eat on board, accompanied by wine and beer, Nepali music and traditional dance performances by the sari-clad female security officers. I remember the last time I attended, some time in February, when the International Hostess accidentally dumped a full glass of red wine all over me as I was putting a spoonful of vegetable curry into my mouth, hence the reason why I only have three sets of uniforms now, not the four I originally received.

Two days ago we were in Cherbourg, France. Unfortunately, I did not get farther than 100 metres away from the ship, with work keeping me busy during this hectic day. We had 500 guests disembark the ship, 600 guests embark the ship and 2000 in the midst of a 2 day voyage from Southampton back to Southampton.

We also had a British Coast Guard boat drill for the crew in which I had to participate. A mock fire, along with massive mock casualities and several decks worth of mock damage made for a long morning. It was quite a drill, with new fires and new explosions and new injuries being fabricated every few minutes. Even the mayor of Cherbourg had to stand waiting on the pierside for almost two hours, unable to board the ship in the midst of our drill and therefore unable to conduct the special “Welcome Ceremony” he had planned for the past several months. But come on, hey Mr. Mayor, we have a drill to do.

And then only one hour after the boat drill finally concluded, there was a bomb threat in the terminal building on the pier as there was a suspicious package behind some desks. I was in the terminal building at the time and suddenly the French authorities were jumping over tables, grabbing arms and yelling out in French. Nobody moved until our French speaking receptionist translated the message to the crowd. We were rushed us out of the building and into the parking lot, where about 100 guests and crew remained standing for about an hour.

But it turned out, as many things do, to be a piece of luggage from Mr. Smithson in cabin #4093. Silly him, he simply forgot to take it onboard after checking in for his cruise. But even sillier him, because when he was escorted outside to claim this bright red piece of luggage, he had neglected to bring the key to open it up so that the authorities could properly examine it.

As a result, Mr. Smithson had to go all the way across the shiny lobby of the terminal building, up two flights of wooden stairs, through the security screening, have his passport stamped at the immigration desk, proceed down the long hall of the upper floor of the terminal building, then along the gangway that led to Deck 2, up the elevator to Deck 4 (apparently he was too lazy for the stairs), down the starboard side corridor and finally to his cabin to retrieve the key. And then he had to follow the exact same route in reverse, as we 100 people remained standing outside, until he eventually unlocked his bright red piece of luggage and showed everyone his underwear and wife’s collection of nightgowns.

Mr. Smithson walked away amused and we re-entered the terminal building.

There are 7 dogs and 4 long-haired domestic cats on board this week.

Yesterday we were in Southampton again.  As we had 2000 guests to disembark and since I am responsible for disembarking them in an orderly and timely fashion, I was most pleasantly surprised when, at 9:00am, we made the final call for guests to disembark. Once all the guests have been called off the ship to collect their luggage, we are free and can return to the ship. My staff then usually goes into town to shop for a few hours and I usually do some work and take a nap. But since we finished so early yesterday (normally we do not make a final call until 10:30am), I went into the centre of Southampton as well, taking the crew shuttle that runs back and forth from the pier into town every 30 minutes.

I walked around aimlessly for about an hour, then bought some blueberries, had a much needed meal of Indian food at Namaste Kerala and then walked back to the ship. I was away from the ship for about 3.5 hours, quite possibly a record length of time. I even brought some take away Indian food back to the ship for dinner, much preferring the Paneer Makhani curry of Namaste Kerala to the offerings on the menu in the officer’s mess.

Time to continue working…we are on our way back to New York, arriving on the 22nd.  It’s foggy outside today.

I am exhausted. Not because of having a lot of work to do, but due to the inability to sleep. The first three nights involved the constant blasting of the fog horns from the navigational bridge every two minutes, all night, as is required in such weather conditions. My cabin happens to be on Deck 4 and towards the front of the ship, and so this location not so far away from the bridge, has put the fog horn practically right outside of my small porthole.
And so, I have been forced to watch “The Life of Brian”, “Ratatouille” and “Ocean’s Thirteen” over and over and over again, not to mention that “Ratatouille” was in French and “Ocean’s Thirteen” was in German.

We dropped off 2000 passengers today in Southampton and picked up another 2000, a group of guests that will only be with us for a short two-day voyage. Tomorrow we are in Cherbourg, France and the next day we are already back in Southampton. This crowd is a ‘different’ kind of crowd; the kind that asks for additional bathrobes to steal before they even unpacked their luggage. Not one person was sitting in the lobby listening to our four piece orchestra at any point during the entire afternoon. Nobody came to us to book any tours for tomorrow in France, out of 2000 guests we have 85 people heading to places such as the Normandy Landing Beaches, Bayeux Tapestry and Gardens of Cherbourg.

We also have a British Coast Guard boat drill tomorrow at 10am, an event that puts extreme fear into every crew member as the ship’s permission to sail depends on our performance. Significant incorrect answers to the Coast Guard’s questioning could theoretically put them in a position where they would stop the ship for sailing, finding the crew too incompetent. This never happens of course, or at least not on the major cruise lines, but the fear is always there.

But I’m prepared, after all I just finished my third ‘new crew’ training session yesterday, where we had to memorize – sea anchor, food, water, fishing gear, hand pump, sponges, thermal protective suit, hand flares, smoke flares, rocket flares, mirror, knife & rope – everything found in a life boat. But then we are reminded that the life boats are for the guests and that the crew is assigned only to the life rafts. We then practiced using fire extinguishers on the back deck, shooting water, CO2, dry powder and foam onto cardboard flames. In only thirty minutes I became, once again, a certified seaman and a firefighter.

And so tomorrow, as soon as the eight blasts on the ship’s horn are heard, I shall don my lifejacket and yellow baseball cap, run up to “Muster Control” and man the control center for the drill. The phones ring, people are checking in, people are lost, people are missing lifejackets or children, heart attacks are happening, fires are starting, mass casualties are suffered. It is all a drill of course, but everything is thrown in our direction and we must deal with it all properly or fail.

On a side note, for the past six days I have had to wear the same uniform upon discovering that little has changed in the world of crew laundry services. I sent three sets of uniforms to be dry cleaned on my first day on board. Two came back dirtier than when I had sent them, with stains of varying colors suddenly plastered all over the sleeves, pockets and collar. The last set had magically lost four of its six buttons, a situation that would take 3-4 days to rectify for sure. And most likely in the process of re-sewing the buttons back on, some more stains will present themselves and I will have to repeat the process again. Usually, during any given contract, I have one complete uniform that is circulating constantly between the laundry men, iron man and sewing woman.

I am also starving all the time, something that happens, not only to me, but to many of us working on ships. My meals are not small – I usually eat an appetizer, salad, two main courses and a desert with names such as Cassis Champagne Mousse with Fresh Wildberry Sauce. But there is something in the food, something I cannot say for certain, but which mysteriously acts very similarly to laxatives. Some crew member on some ship for some cruise line once started the rumor that food on board ships was laced with laxatives to aid in not only the digestive processes, but to help ensure that the plumbing pipes are not worked too hard. Anyway, whatever is the source, I AM STARVING, and it appears that I will soon have to restart my old nightly routine of sneaking into the officer’s mess late at night to retrieve enough mini-boxes of cereal to fill a bucket.

Last night I finally went to the ‘Wardy’ aka ‘Wardroom’ aka ‘Officer’s Bar’. My entire team went and we had a couple of drinks in the dark, smoky room. Krystyna, the Ukrainian bartender, served us whiskey/gingers and pineapple/rums as the British officer’s sang drunikedly in the back corner, the Canadian youth staff were climbing all over the tables and chairs as if they were children themselves, the Sanitation officer was there as were the nurses and the Captain’s Secretary. Actually, the Captain himself came down for a visit, stopping along the way to shake hands, smile and wave to us simple folk as if he were the Dalai Lama. Some crew look like they want to drop to their knees and prostrate before this master of the vessel while others just bow while trying their hardest not to make any eye contact.

I stayed in the bar until 1am and then I returned to my cabin for a grand 4 hours of sleep. Today began at 5:45am and finished at 8:30pm as I worked in my office, supervised the disembarkation while standing in the luggage hall of the Southampton terminal building for four hours, had meetings with our UK bosses, paged the Chief Systems Officers a few dozen times as our tour booking system continued to crash repeatedly throughout the day and was forced to move into another temporary cabin (as the technical department needed their cabin back) until the 16th. I ate spinach quiche for lunch and pan-seared haddock for dinner.

Tomorrow we arrive in Cherbourg at 7am and we have to move the clocks forward another hour (the 5th time in 6 days) tonight. From the comfort of my large, mini-suite passenger cabin (which I can enjoy for the next two days!), I shall lie down and hopefully enjoy a full night’s sleep for the first time since being on board.

From the Atlantic – en route from NYC to Southampton, UK 

Despite my slight hesitation in the parking lot of the pier in Red Hook, Brooklyn moments before reaching the ship, I followed through in the end, finding myself walking right back up the same gangway I had so eagerly run down five months earlier.  And there I was, once again a part of the 1268 crew members from over 50 countries prepared to spend 10 – 16 hours a day serving 2659 vacationing guests on board the famous Queen Mary 2. 

All around me cages full of luggage were whisked into the elevators, pallets of lamb and bananas and napkins were brought on board, the floors were being mopped, the toilets scrubbed, the dining rooms being set up.  On such days when a voyage finishes and a new one is about to begin, the pace is dizzyingly frantic, with every crew member part of an incredible machine that must serve everyone breakfast at 6am, send 5000 pieces of luggage ashore, disembark all of the guests in an orderly fashion, clean the entire ship and all the cabins, embark another 2600 guests only 30 minutes after the last guest from the previous voyage walked off the ship and complete the entire process in reverse. 

There are two crew members who work non-stop practically every voyage, as they have the sole responsibility for serving our highest, and most demanding, VIPs, those special guests who live on the topmost deck, with the most impressive views, guests who are served only the finest and most elegantly prepared food, sleep on the fluffiest of first class pillows and require constant pampering.  They wear their expensive Queen Mary 2 sweaters, show off their freshly styled hair-dos and bark at the staff when things do not go their way.  On this voyage there are five of them and their names are ‘Boycie’, ‘Magee’, ‘Belle’, ‘Ganesh’ and ‘Maple.’  They are not American, British or German but are, in order of their names, a Pug, Yorkshire Terrier, Border Collie, Beagle and Shitzu.  This is the Queen Mary 2 after all, and there is no other ship like it.   

As for my return, it was a relatively easy transition, taking only a couple of minutes for me to recognize dozens and be recognized by dozens of others.  Unfortunately, I did not remember most of their names.  As photographers, salon staff, housekeepers, receptionists and social staff approached me with a “Welcome back, Derek” I could only reply with a “Good to see you…” and a pause.  Had they not mentioned my name I simply would not have had to mention theirs.  But as they did somehow remember mine, I was forced to steal a lightning quick glance at their chests in order to read the name off of their name tags.  It is an art indeed, to stare ever so subtly in the midst of a conversation while limiting the length of the necessary pause.  But it was only my first day back and I must admit that I failed miserably in this aspect, my stares more than obvious and now bound to cause much irreparable insult.   

After a first day of wearing jeans and doing approximately 13 minutes of work I was forced to wake up at 7:30am this morning, put on my neatly pressed white officer’s uniform and attend the Hotel Manager’s meeting.  But as the senior officers spoke of the need for supervisors to train their teams how to deal with New Yorkers (who were deemed ‘pushier than normal’ and ‘not the kind of guests our crew are used to dealing with’), I wondered how fast the time would pass until I would be sitting in the final meeting of my contract.  

Following the meeting I proceeded to work steadily for a lengthy 9 minutes, during which time I hung up on one guest after forgetting the reason I had called.  I also wrote a letter that will be sent to 100 guests disembarking the ship in Cherbourg, France on the 15^th, telling them such intriguing things as ‘vacate your stateroom by 8:30am’ and ‘there will be a staff member outside the customs hall to direct you to your clearly marked motor coach.’     

The reason I stopped working after only 9 minutes was because of the two-hour mandatory training session that I had to attend, that all new or returning crew must attend each time they join the ship.  The Captain spoke first, explaining the rules and regulations regarding such topics as drug and alcohol use, sexual harassment and suicidal cabin mates; the Staff Captain talked about Safety at Sea, what to do if we see someone fall overboard and what fire extinguisher to use if we accidentally ignite the french fries; the Environmental Officer told us not to throw anything over board, adding in the words ‘including passengers’ at the end but receiving only a few nervous chuckles from the crowd; the Crew Doctor stressed the need to use condoms and to frequently wash our hands in order to avoid contracting a gastro-intestinal illness and vomiting all over the vessel; the Security Officer told us to keep an eye out for Osama and pirates and lost old ladies accidentally wandering into crew areas looking for the Medical Center.   

The Environmental Officer did attempt to redeem himself at the end, offering the following joke:  “If you see a guest about to throw something over the side of the ship, you must approach them and say ‘I am sorry but we are not allowed to do that.  However, I will be more than happy to take that from you and dispose of it properly.’  The guest will then hand over their baby…”  Unfortunately, there were no chuckles this time, with those of us experienced crew members in the group shaking our heads in understanding of how ‘ship life’ affects our brains.   

I am in my cabin now, just having finished watching Mr. Bean and eating some blueberries.  I am exhausted and ready for sleep but am constantly pondering the question I was asked so often today – “How does it feel to be back?” At this point I could only offer the standard reply of “Ask me in two months.”  I don’t know how I feel at the moment.  It is slightly pleasant here on board, I am not too busy with work (definitely aided by the fact that the person I am replacing is still on board until the end of this voyage), the atmosphere is positive and the spinach canelloni was actually not too bad tonight (although the baked cod I ordered yesterday was completely frozen).