All the Roadrunning

Yes, it has been ten days or so since my last entry. I will choose to blame that on the numbness that has resulted from all of these days at sea, not on some sudden immense workload that has required my attention, mainly because my workload has remained at a level that still allows me to spend my evenings in the sauna.

But alas, the final countdown has begun! Normally, the countdown to the day my contract ends begins a good two months in advance, but given the short duration of this stint on board, I did not begin mine until August 23^rd, some ten days before my sign-off date of September 4th.

An ‘end of contract countdown’ does not simply involve marking each passing day on the calendar with a big red ‘x’. Of course that is part of it, but its just not the whole process. During lunch or dinner, someone is bound to be sitting all alone, staring off into the distance with an expressionless face, occasionally chewing their mashed peas in mechanical fashion. Someone will approach them, just as I did to the Chief Sommelier yesterday evening, and ask the simple question, “Are you ok?” The response I received was one that I have heard so often before. “27 damn days left!” our wine expert declared.

[read on]

Ding. Dong. Ding. 

Ordinarily, I hear this trio of sounds dozens of times throughout the day.  It comes from the ship’s PA system and it indicates that an announcement is about to be broadcast.  Usually it is the Cruise Director informing guests of the next show time in the theatre or a receptionist asking for a particular guest to contact the front office.  These announcements are so frequent and irrelevant to me that I don’t even listen.   

Once night falls, however, and the activity of the day has faded and the majority of crew members are snug underneath their blankets, the Ding-Dong-Ding takes on an entirely different meaning.     

If an announcement is being made in the middle of the night, it is usually only for the crew to hear and always brings troublesome news.  The Hotel Manager would not simply have the urge at midnight to enthusiastically inform all crew that they will be receiving Cunard towels as their Christmas gifts this year.     

Instead, such announcements usually signify a medical emergency or a fire or perhaps a warning that all crew might soon have to go their emergency stations as a precaution.  When something is wrong somewhere on board, certain people must be summoned, warned or evacuated and the quickest method of doing so is a loud booming PA message blasted into all crew cabins.     

Last night at 2am, we were all awakened with that feared Ding-Dong-Ding.  During the two seconds that passed before an actual voice was heard through the speakers, I tossed aside my blanket, sat up in bed and began mentally preparing for the worst.    The Captain’s steady voice soon echoed out, notifying us that there had been a complete blackout of the ship and that our main electrical system was down.  But he also assured everyone that there was no need for alarm and that the emergency generators and backup electrical system had kicked into action.  It was just a general notice aimed at allaying any fears that might arise as crew began realizing that the electricity had failed.   

The Captain then wished us all a good night and I took a calm breath, feeling quite relieved that the situation was not something more urgent.  I fluffed my pillow and lay back down in bed.     

Twenty minutes later I heard an explosion outside of my cabin. 

Out of pure instinctual reaction, I tumbled to the floor and bolted across the room.  Opening the door in one quick motion, a thick wave of hot air bellowed past my face and into my cabin.  I nearly became sick with fear as I stared out into an impenetrable cloud of dark gray fog.  The visibility was no more than one foot and I came to the shocking conclusion that the ship was on fire and that I might be trapped.   

As I tried to peer through the fog, trying to decide if there was a viable escape route, I heard a violent hissing as intense streams of hot water began spraying out of the wall in front of me.  A layer of water immediately began building on the floor of the hallway.  The heat and smoke alarms in my cabin began beeping and I closed the door.  

From inside my room, I started to hear voices yelling and footsteps moving at a running pace somewhere at the other end of the hallway, but I was not confident that the area outside my door was safe enough for me to pass through.  I stood still, my feet unable to move, my heart pounding and my arms shaking. 

It was not until someone started banging on my door that I snapped out of my shock-induced trance.  I opened it and found an officer from the bridge yelling for me to evacuate at once.  I threw on a t-shirt and sandals and ran along the hall in the direction the officer told me to go, as other crew began beating on the doors of all my neighbors, trying to evacuate the entire area.   

The stairwell heading down to the safety of Deck 1 was a steady stream of traffic, with dozens of crew on two floors being cleared from their cabins.   Usually empty and silent at this time of night, Deck 1 instantly became a crowd of half-asleep, confused, scared people as more and more crew poured in from every direction.  Without knowing exactly what was happening, I could not help dwelling on the fact that we were nowhere near land, some two days out in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. 

After an hour of leaning against a wall, I tried to return to the area of my cabin in order to obtain a better understanding of the situation.  But I could not get very close, my hallway was flooded, water was pouring down three flights of stairs and a dozen or so security officers, deck officers and engineers were still working on the problem. 

Exhausted and living in an environment that does not allow for days off, I realized that I needed to sleep before morning came.  A friend of mine had an empty bed in his two-berth cabin which I gladly made use of.  However, I did not sleep much of course, instead falling in and out of disturbing dreams and waking thoughts about whether or not this ordeal was actually over.   

At 7:30am, without any further announcements having been made, I decided to return to my cabin.  I walked up the stairs slowly and along the hallway with the smallest of steps, as does one returning home to the house they had evacuated before a tornado or hurricane swept through their town.  I turned the final corner hesitantly, stepping in some small puddles of water scattered around the floor.  

Entering my cabin, I heard two distinct noises.  One was of my feet squishing the soaking carpet and the other was the drone of a dark blue industrial-size blower blowing warm air in an attempt to remove the moisture.  I surveyed the cabin quickly, finding little damage beyond the flooding of my entire floor.  Most of my belongings had luckily been tossed on to my bed by what I can only assume was a fellow crew member who had thought to save my stuff after I had been evacuated.   

I sat down for a few minutes on the still dry sofa and replayed the events of the night before as the air blower created a constant wind that swirled around me.   My room stunk terribly of rotten, damp carpet but I was quite content to have this foul odor as my only problem in the end.    

It turns out that not only did we have a complete blackout and a burst hot water pipe last night, but we also had engine troubles.  On the commute to my office this morning, I glanced out the windows and noticed that the ship was not moving.  Moments later the Captain made another announcement, one for all guests and crew to hear.  One of the pod propulsion units had a technical problem and as a result he needed to stop the ship in order to conduct an investigation.  Once again he stressed that there was no need for alarm. 

Tonight I have been given an empty passenger cabin to sleep in so that I can hopefully get some much needed rest.  But we’ll see how well I sleep, especially considering that this evening we are even further from land, some three days out in the middle of the Atlantic.  We are also only 100 miles from the sunken Titanic but I don’t really want to think about that right now. 

I slept late this morning, not waking up until 8:45am.  But you see, this is when having a 29 second commute from my ‘home’ to my office proves more than beneficial.  Not only does this short journey allow me to still arrive at work on time after oversleeping by thirty minutes, but it also allows me to use my own bathroom, relax on my sofa during a break and change my socks midday if my feet start to itch.        

The quickest route to my office is to exit my cabin, turn right, walk down two flights of stairs and then straight along Deck 2 to the middle of the ship, passing the Royal Court Theatre, card tables, computer center and Queen Mary 2 museum along the way.  However, this route can at times be dangerous, as wheelchairs, groups of mah jong players and intrigued museum visitors can create some major congestion, often resulting in slow movement or even gridlock conditions.  And there is always the possibility that I will be pulled over by a passing guest, usually by someone who mistakes my white uniform for that of an officer on the bridge, and asked such questions as ‘How deep is the ocean here?’ or ‘Can you explain the azipod system that propels the vessel?’  No, I can’t.

My alternate route to work is slightly longer than the former in terms of distance, as it involves me ducking down to Deck 1, walking all the way to the B stairwell, and then walking back up to Deck 2.  However, this path is 99% located in crew-only areas, which automatically eliminates any heavy traffic, mah jong players and technical questions.  The only possibility of delay here is if I happen to run into another crew member, one in which a simple passing “Hey there” does not suffice.  This is not usually a bad thing, as it is quite nice to engage in quick conversation with other people in this community, share frustrations and laugh about the toughness of the halibut again.  It’s just that if I am in a rush and suddenly find myself chit-chatting with the Captain about the beauty of Halifax in autumn, I just might be late in arriving at the office. 

Other factors that come into play are vacuums and mops.  If the carpets on Deck 3 are being vacuumed, I might have to turn around and retrace my steps and then use the identical route on the other side of the ship.  If the floors are being mopped on Deck 2, I will have to slow my pace considerably in order to avoid hydroplaning into a steel pole. 

I probably return to my cabin 6 or 7 times throughout each day.  Sometimes for vital reasons such as trying to toss another rolled up tissue into the garbage bin against the back wall while standing by the bathroom door 8 feet away.  (I keep a tally until I reach 50 attempts and then I begin a new round – Round 1: 22 for 50 / Round 2: a dismal 13 for 50 / Round 3 is off to a much better start: 4 for 7.)  Some of my other mini-breaks are for reasons of much less importance, watering my bamboo plants, cutting my toe nails or making sure nobody is hiding in my shower for example.  

Tomorrow we arrive once again in Southampton, having completed another five days at sea.  We sailed through some rather rough waters the past few days, with waves swelling as high as my Deck 4 cabin.  But apart from a barely noticeable sway, the ship was hardly affected as usual.   

We also passed within a hundred miles of the sunken Titanic, although we do that every time we cross the Atlantic.  Vegetable satay was served for dinner on the first day again and swordfish on the third and of course they were out of rocky road ice cream by day number two. The Groovy Choir sang again in the Grand Lobby this very afternoon. 

Everything remains constant on these crossings, just as my commute typically remains under half a minute in duration.  And what a pleasure it is to know that my journey to and from work is completely unaffected by the weather or holiday seasons or road crews or jackknifed eighteen wheelers.  I have only the odd mop or pallet full of lima beans to avoid on occasion. 

First thing tomorrow morning I actually have a meeting with our shore side management taking place in conference room #4 on board the ship.  Several managers from our head offices in the UK will have to wake up considerably earlier than normal and drive a farther distance than they are used to in order to reach the ship in time for the 7:30am meeting. 

I will set my alarm for 7:10am, plenty of time to shave, shower, put on my uniform and even style my hair.  My commute to conference room #4 is only 9 seconds.    

I missed the White Star Crew Party last night.  Held once a month or so, these dark, fraternity-esque gatherings take place in the luggage loading hall, a wide expanse of metal floor located in the middle of the ship on Deck 1.  This is the area where passenger’s luggage is offloaded and loaded during our turnaround days; but on White Star Party nights, it transforms into a rave hall, a hot and steamy metal warehouse where crew of every nationality attempts to release a month’s worth of frustrations in a few measly hours.   The floor is usually sticky with beer spillage, the music alternates between trance and R&B and the lack of light provides the perfect cloak for all the hanky panky. 

Free Heineken and Sutter Home is dished out by the plastic cupful and the only decorations are black canvas sheets hanging from the ceiling, sealing off areas that might be dangerous for the rowdy party goers.   

It is United Nations meets Girls Gone Wild and Animal House.   

Over my years on the ships, I have attended more than my share of these parties, but this time I had no desire.  As the party raged on last night, I was quite content to be dreaming and drooling in my bed.  I dreamt of Hawaii actually, more specifically of driving a boat onto the beach and crashing it into a home owned by a famous actor. Regardless of the content, this dream state allowed me to rest for yet another 10 hour period, a length of available sleep time simply unheard of when we are sailing around the Mediterranean or Caribbean.   But as all we are doing is crossing the Atlantic over and over again, 10 hour journeys into the depth of night have become both common and expected.  When the violent hissing of my automatic porthole washer wakes me up yet again, there is no longer reason to complain.  I could not possibly need any more sleep. 

I am not only resting during the night either.  Almost every evening I have been visiting my favorite location on the ship, the Canyon Ranch Spa.  Thanks to the stripes on my shoulders, I am one of a handful of crewmembers that is granted the most sought after privilege of being allowed to frequent this magical oasis.  At 7:00pm I normally head up to Deck 7, duck into the back crew entrance of the spa and immediately enter a state of pure relaxation, finding myself far removed from anything resembling ship life.   

Birds chirp melodiously, waterfalls cascade from the sky and the most pleasing scents sift through the air.  For one hour I alternate between the meditative aromatherapy sauna, the warm oak benches of the Finnish sauna, the pore cleansing steam room, the hot water foot massage module, the tropical rain showers, the jacuzzi and the deep tissue massaging water jet located in the middle of the tranquil pool.   

Usually there are only one or two guests in the facility at this time of day, as most are dressed in their tuxedos, sipping sparkling wine and shaking hands with the Captain.   And so, in complete peace and quiet I reenergize with my free nightly pass to the most luxurious spa at sea.  Such is the life I live.  In the end, despite the negative aspects of life on board the ships, I actually get paid to go to the spa, paid to rejuvenate and spoil myself as often as I want.  Paid to spend a night in Hamburg as well.  Can you see why it is so difficult to leave? 

My day is coming to an end right now, as our Tour Office has just closed for the evening and all of my work is complete.  It is 5:00pm and the “Groovy Choir” is screaming in absolute disharmony outside of my office.  Twice a voyage guests meet in the Grand Lobby and join our Jazz Trio for a 1.5 hour session of sing-a-longs.  At the moment they are shouting out an absurd medley that includes the theme song to the Flintstones, Lean on Me and What a Wonderful World all at the same time.  As always happens when the “Groovy Choir” is performing, I am starting to feel a headache rapidly approaching.   

But I am not worried.  It is certainly nothing that the aromatherapy sauna cannot instantly remedy. 

Every now and then cruise ship crewmembers are treated to a special occasion, one so welcome and so refreshing, so anticipated and so extraordinary.  It is that glorious occurrence when a ship is docked in one place for twenty four straight hours.  And it is not due to a lack of creativity, but rather as a mark of straightforward description, that we label these rare and most celebrated events simply as, ‘overnights’. 

Three days ago we sailed down the Elbe River and into the port of Hamburg, arriving at the tide influenced hour of 2:30am.  As the side thrusters snugly nudged the vessel alongside the pier at the Grasbrook Cruise Terminal, I slept happily in my cabin.  I am certain that a smile was upon my sleeping face, my subconscious being fully aware that we would be docked in this German city for over 24 hours.   

Of course I had work to do, tours to operate, guests to disembark, a Tour Office to open in the afternoon.  But all of that would certainly not engulf the entire 24 hours, nor would I choose to let it.  There would be free time, oh yes!  Free time in the outside world, free time for me to run around in childish wonder, to bathe in normalcy and to forget about formalities and restrictions.  Even better, this was Hamburg!  This was not Southampton or Brooklyn, our typical ports of call, where I rush off the ship to spend my two hours of free time buying soap and blueberries.    

At 6pm this past Wednesday, the work day was complete and my team and I gathered outside of the ship to meet our local tour operator who had invited us out for a drink.  Before long we were in a car, already giddy at being inside such a small form of transportation, driving through the crowded streets, passing warehouses and statues of numerous Wilhelms.  Eventually we reached the scenic Alster Lake in the city centre.   

At this point, we could not contain ourselves, practically delirious at the notion of an evening outside. To those of you who do not work onboard a cruise ship, our evening outside will most likely seem dull, unworthy of mention, just another night.   

But sitting at an outdoor café, at a shiny silver table, under the authentic sun and in actual fresh air, with a fountain shooting water high into the sky in the middle of the lake and bicycles, pedestrians, ice cream stands, pigeons, traffic lights and public buses surrounding us, could be described as pure bliss.   

Before long, our mugs were full of Holsten Lager, and we began rambling on about how different these pigeons looked from those elsewhere, how well-timed were Hamburg’s traffic lights, how nice were the aprons of the waitresses and how beautiful was the building across the street, a building that was one of the ugliest I have ever come across.  But our brains were simply unwinding, adjusting to normalcy, trying to spit out any remnants of its usually intense and solely work-related focus.  And the result was just pure gibberish. 

Our tour operator sat quietly nodding her head, smiling politely, probably wondering why she had even invited us out, as we laughed and giggled and spoke about our favorite shoe lace colors.  I give the tour operator credit, she stayed with us for almost two hours before taking her leave, informing us that she needed to return to her office to complete some paperwork.  We knew she hated us, but we accepted her excuse, fully aware that we would have done the same.  Anyway, we still had five hours left to continue feeling like free human beings.   

Only minutes after wandering off in the direction of St. Michael’s Church, we discovered a far more spiritual place to spend some time – a German wine festival.  Under the shadow of the elegant clock tower rising out of the Rathaus (Town Hall), hundreds of large tents housed hundreds of food and wine stalls, with long wooden tables and benches, servers dressed in liederhosen and accordion players bouncing around while tugging on their suspender straps. 

Granted, this festival was not exactly what one might envision as typical for this part of the world.  Instead of obscenely large mugs of beer, blond braided waitresses carrying ten of these mugs in each hand and platefuls of sausages, we were soon sipping Stuttgart Riesling, commenting on its complex  qualities and munching on pretzels and omelets.  We did clink our glasses loudly as often as possible and swayed sloppily to the music, just as the movies had taught us to do, but in the end, we were the only people in the vicinity doing so.       

We drank several bottles, we sang several songs.  We sat there at that table for three straight hours, laughing uncontrollably, simply because we had no rules, no strict codes of conduct, no restraints imposed upon us.  Passersby asked us where we were from and after baffling them with our motley mix of nationalities (USA, Ukraine, Nepal, UK, Canada) we explained where we worked.  This led to photographs and stories and in certain instances hugs and kisses and in certain of those instances, unwanted hugs and unwanted kisses. 

By the second bottle and the ninth plate of pretzels, Hamburg soon became our favorite port, our favorite city, our favorite place in the entire world.  “I could live here” we all said at some point.  In the end it could have been Hong Kong, Dubai, Athens or Reykjavik, and at various times over the years it has been those places as well.  But on this night, our world was centered on Hamburg, a fascination brought on simply because this city allowed us to drink its wine while dressed in jeans and t-shirts. 

At half past one in the morning we piled into one of those typical all-beige Mercedes taxis found in Germany, and rode back to the ship.  Being surrounded by beige during this short ride, images of my all-beige cabin began painfully popping into my head, the first sign that the 2am all aboard time was no longer somewhere far off in the distance.   

Every time our ship visits Hamburg, we receive an unforgettable welcome and farewell, with crowds of up to 100,000 people coming out to see us.  Cameras flash more rapidly than at the Super Bowl, locals ask uniformed crewmembers to pose for photographs and to sign autographs.  And tonight was no different. 

Upon arrival at the pier, we were greeted by a mob of several thousand people, all wanting to bid farewell to our ship.   As I pushed my way through the crowds to the security booth at the entrance gate, I stared up at my glowing ship, all lit up with its blue and white lights, its gravitational beauty beckoning me home.  The security guard checked my crew ID and opened the gate, allowing me to walk into the large empty space next to the ship where only we selected few can enter.  

Walking up the gangway, my night in Hamburg suddenly lay behind me and it was my cabin, my tiny shower, my neatly pressed uniform that awaited me now.  And only seconds later, as I took that first step back onto the ship, Hamburg simply faded away completely, no longer my savior, no longer my favorite city in the world.  My gibberish immediately returned to polite, scripted greetings as each step along the route to my cabin seemed to choke out the last of my freedoms.   

Ordinarily, the end of an ‘overnight’ offers as much of a reason to mourn as its beginning ignites us to rejoice.  But this time, after the Riesling had worn off and I had stubbed my toe as usual while trying to turn around in my bathroom, I had only to glance at the itinerary calendar hanging on the wall of my cabin.    

On August 27^th we shall ‘overnight’ in Hamburg once again.