Permanent Passenger: My Life on a Cruise Ship

by Micha Berman

  The fly-ons enjoyed both living on the ship for a night or two and then returning to their land-based home. These performers would be flown to different ports where they board the ship for one or two nights and then leave at the next port. One fly-on act who became a good friend was Mickey, a break-dancer from Orlando, Florida who joined the cruise for three days each week as part of a three-person break-dancing team. Mickey, a stocky Hispanic looking man with olive green eyes and bushy brown hair, had been in the entertainment business since he was a kid. He talked with a kind of confidence that I rarely heard and preferred cruise shows to the jaded show business stunts he had become accustomed to like juggling at amusement parks or dressing up in big furry costumes for birthday parties. Like Chris, Mickey's sincerity and intelligence were limited commodities on a cruise ship, allowing us to talk about deeper issues removed from the day-to-day life of the cruise ship.

  During my stint on the ship I always looked forward to his arrival to catch up on his adventures and talk about subjects I had been deprived of on the ship like philosophy, religion, careers, and current events. One night while sitting on the sofas in a public area of the ship Mickey began talking about all the assistant cruise directors he had met and his repeated conversations about getting off the ship and going into business for himself. Another co-dependent, cruise line junkie, I thought."Promise me that one year from now you won't be having this same conversation with another assistant cruise director," I begged. He was silent, acknowledging the great cyclone of power cruise life held over anyone familiar with it. "Promise," I repeated. "I do, I swear," Mickey said with his usual intensity and breathed a sigh of relief.

  The problem for Mickey was that the deal the cruise ship offered his group was almost too good to be true, earning enough money in just five minutes of performing so that they wouldn't have to work the rest of the week. The cruise ship was an exciting place for three days and it wasn't just the money that made it enticing. Each break-dancer had their share of romance waiting for them on the ship each week. Mickey was accompanied by Matt, a lanky six-footer famous for his jet black sky-pointing hair a la Don King that rose a good 30 inches from his scalp and by Tim, a blonde surfer boy with good looks and bad-boy behavior. They invented a game they would play each night in the disco whereby the dancing trio walked up to an attractive woman who quickly recognized them as the break-dancers and asked her to reveal which one of them she would most like to kiss. They kept a running score each week and the game would often end by the dancer kissing the passenger amidst cheers. Mickey would remain a friend after I left the ship, his break-dancing trio made it to the halftime shows of the NBA and to the stages of Las Vegas, but eventually he broke off on his own to pursue a career in music.

  In numbers, the cruise staff and all the entertainers only made up a small part of that 800 member crew, the majority of employees on the ship were cleaners, cabin stewards, waiters, or deckhands. Working nonstop, these workers had very little time to get off the ship and enjoy the ports. In many cases they worked under intense stress. One evening while eating dinner I witnessed just how hot this pressure actually got. All waiters begin their time on the cruise ship as trainees in the crew dining hall until their managers feel they are ready to move upstairs to wait on the passengers. On this evening a group of Indian trainees were setting up a table, when a British manager strode into the dining room. He looked at the table with its plates and glasses carefully arranged, the silverware grouped neatly and then raised his head to glare at the waiters who stood anxiously in front of him. "What is this?" he shouted. Heads turned towards the booming voice. Then without a warning he grabbed the tablecloth and pulled it off the table, sending the plates and silverware flying all over the place."This is a disgrace, how many times do I have to teach you guys!" I stood transfixed by the humiliating debacle and the tension was visibly tangible in the room as his tantrum lasted for a few minutes before he disappeared into the kitchen. Without a word, the waiters sheepishly picked up the silverware and broken china and reset the table. I could not believe what I had just seen, and with the different nationalities I couldn't help but think I was witnessing colonialism all over again. This demeaning tone in many of the managers on the ship was widespread.

  This type of manager really pissed me off. Since I couldn't really do anything about them I developed my own personal strategy of retaliation, bumping into them purposely in the hallways and giving them the evil eye whenever I had the opportunity. When I saw them heading in my direction, their arrogance would erupt a well of anger inside of me. In my mind they deserved to be punished for the way they treated their employees.

  My greatest run in with management occurred during a time on the ship when I lifted weights and drank protein shakes in a desperate attempt to increase my size and mass. I was the skinny guy about to become Charles Atlas if I could just get enough of these magical protein concoctions down my gullet. I arranged with one of the bartenders to get a couple of plastic containers used to mix drinks for my protein shakes.

  Each evening I sneaked into a crew kitchen close to my room and stole a little milk to mix with my protein powder and made a shake. As I left the kitchen this particular night I bumped right into Sergio, the Manager for Food and Beverages on the ship. A stiff-postured Spanish man with undulating locks of black hair, Sergio at first gave me a friendly smile but when his eyes drifted to the stolen container of milk in my hands, his look changed to one of bewilderment soon followed by disgust. Standing two feet away from the man who was in charge of everything that had to do with food on the ship, I knew I had a problem."I don't understand, where did you get that container, young man," he asked," his voice rising with each word."From a bartender," I mumbled incoherently."I don't understand," he repeated. It was close to one in the morning and I was feeling on edge. I quickly turned around and sprinted to a door leading into a long corridor that then separated into a maze of hallways. I knew I could lose him and if he wanted these containers so badly he was going to have to chase me down. He didn't even try and within minutes I was free to return to my room victorious, to celebrate with my hard-won protein shake.

  Like the many decks below, the staff on the M.S. Ecstasy was separated by class, rank, title, nationality; for some aboard this was an invitation to arrogance and abuse, for others like Captain Gallo it was handled with charm and dignity.Regardless of the many differences between the hundreds of workers that kept the cruise vessel afloat each day, there was a great bond of citizenship that we all shared, we were sisters and brothers of the sea, and when our floating city harbored each Sunday morning in Miami, we looked at each other with the unspoken understanding that this was just a pit stop, a short break, home was somewhere else and soon the fog horn would call us back.

  Crazy Cruise Trivia

  Did you know?

  In 1845 a German Ship owner placed an advertisement

  in a Hamburg newspaper suggesting a possible cruise around the world

  on one of his largest sailing vessels.

  He got little to no response.

  Chapter 5 Is There Love on the Love Boat?

  "Would you happen to know where the buffet is?" she asked so innocently as I turned the corner, rushing back to my cabin after hosting a late night event. I had been turning the corner full speed so there was no way to avoid her. Our bodies were now inches away as we each checked for fender bender damages. She had a pleasing face, midwest, wholesome, a little bit pudgy, but her smile was radiant. Without backing off, she repeated, "Do you know where the buffet is?" I looked her right in the eyes and without hesitation answered, "I am the buffet," and so our night began. She didn't seem surprised by my response at all. She just grabbed my hand in hers and we began walking. I asked, "what are your plans for the evening?" with a dash of authority. After all I was wearing my standard Carnival uniform: a blue blazer, white pants, and white shoes, punctuated by my little Carnival name tag. I was about to commit a crime, a high crime of the sea. The first of three gold
en rules of the ship for all crew members was absolutely no romance with passengers. It was a rule that was spoken about, written about, talked about and most importantly violated by the select few. Up to now I had heard the stories, wondering how it really happened. I was beginning to find out.

  When these mammoth cruise ships are built in the shipyards of Italy there must be a love fairy that sprinkles dust of romance into their hulls and spirits. The names of Carnival's fleet spoke for itself, the M.S. Fantasy, the M.S. Sensation, the M.S. Ecstasy, the M.S. Celebration, the M.S. Fascination. It was a labor of love. I continued to lead my newly found date around the ship, walking faster and faster as we inhaled the clean sea air. Strains of Abba's Dancing Queen filtered in from the disco, but mostly it was the crashing of the waves against the side of the boat that served as background music to our conversation. "Where are we going?" Susan asked. Later I would find out the details. A nurse from Philadelphia, recently broken up, avid drinker, Susan had decided to vacation with a group of friends from college. As we passed a blue door emblazoned with the words, "KEEP OUT," I tried to impress her with my knowledge of the ship. "That's the entrance to the crew swimming pool, maybe we can go there sometime." What I didn't tell her was the pool only measured 8 feet long and closed at 6 p.m.. I left the details to her imagination. Favorite music, high school, brothers, ex-boyfriends, something about seasickness, her words were getting lost in the wind. We walked down a narrow deck, the white railing to our side, the wind whipping up against us, pulling my shirt tight against me. We stopped and faced each other. Snuggled within a wind tunnel, I dug my hands deep into her shoulders while alternating my stares out at the endless black sea and burying my head into her hair. I inhaled her smell, though there were traces of disco laced smoke. It smelled sweet as perfume and its softness brushed against my face.

  She squeezed my hands and leaned in for a kiss. I smelled the slightly sour alcohol on her breath as I am sure she could on me. The kiss was comforting. Her hair blew wildly in all directions. We were totally alone and heard only the tapping of canvas covers against the hard body of the ship and the loud snapping of the waves. From the darkness I heard distant Italian voices, officers no doubt, probably committing the same sins I had been so actively involved in for the last hour. My nurse practitioner let out a sigh, and pushed me away. "Let's go back to your cabin." We grabbed each other's hands and sprinted to my cabin.

  The next day I had a hard time concealing my smile. Carnival had made it explicitly clear from the beginning that "relations" with passengers was strictly forbidden and would not be tolerated. Even before I had been hired, the Carnival Entertainment Director had mentioned specifically that romances with passengers was not professional and could be grounds for dismissal. But after a couple of months on the ship, it was clear that life at sea was not the professional world that top land-based management aspired to. Romance was happening everywhere on this ship, in the hallways, jacuzzis, bathrooms, stairwells--every dark or light corner of the ship was a potential spot for love. If you thought about the logistics of the ship, it was easy to understand. Close to 3,000 people were confined to a 13-story boat. Most of the cabins were tiny, and often passengers shared very close quarters with friends and family. No one wanted grandma to be part of the kisses. Most of the public space consisted of discos, restaurants, casinos, swimming pools or lounge areas. But I wasn't complaining and neither were any other crew members.

  The romances with passengers was really one of the fringe benefits of working on the ship. You have your free room and board, free food, free trips to interesting ports, and your choice of 2000 passengers. Crew after all, even had their own word for these flings with passengers,"coning." You won't find it in a dictionary so I'll give you a Webster sentence. Matt, the purser said to his colleague, "I think I will go coning tonight. I'm in the mood for love." "Coning" would be defined as engaging in a romance with a passenger. There were thousands to choose from and the menu changed weekly. I must confess I was addicted to coning and the scene in general. Each Sunday the photographers of the ship would greet all the passengers before they boarded the ship for the ceremonial palm tree shot. Smiling tourists bedecked with a lei would stop for thirty seconds in front of a fake cardboard palm tree to have their photos taken. The photographers, not the most adept at covering their boredom, would snap away for hours at a time, grinning and yawning in strange tandems of muscular twitches. By Sunday evening their hard work would be exhibited on the walls of the Empress deck.

  On the way to dinner, passengers would pass through the Hall of Pictures and conveniently be able to purchase multiple copies for ridiculously high prices. Monopolies are a bitch at sea. Crew members would also walk through this same hallway, only to them it was the Hall of Love. Surveying the walls, my fellow cruise staff, waiters, cabin stewards, porters and photographers would visually hunt for prospects in the upcoming cruises, possibilities for their coning adventures. Certain cruises were for the dogs; letdowns because of the scarcity of good-looking females. Other cruises would draw more and more spectators to this hall as they marveled at the many beautiful women displayed on the wall. A jolt of excitement would strike through the crew decks as word got out that the ship was full of babes. There may be a group of 500 Brazilian women or an unusually large number of bachelorette parties. It didn't matter.

  It wasn't only the male employees either. The female dancers with their voluptuous physiques and Dallas cowboy cheerleader looks were a strange bunch. British hotties that pronounced their vegetables in ways that made tourists from Indiana squint with confusion, these girls strained the neck of every male cruiser, except their male dancer counterparts who were as gay as a Christmas ornament. The dancers were under Gestapo style weight restrictions, each with a contract and a weight they had to remain under or face the consequences. One dancer may have been eating too many pastries at the midnight buffets because she mysteriously disappeared after one of the famous monthly weigh-ins. It was for this reason that the dancers spent a lot of their time in the gym or munching on cereal in their cabins.

  Samantha, the buxom blonde flasher from London was a star attraction. Just under six feet, Samantha was a big woman with a big mouth and an insatiable appetite for romance. Of all the dancers she seemed to carry the most love per pound, mostly in her breasts and butt. With no need for makeup, Sam was a dynamo who entangled many travelers into her mischievous and rather nasty web of love. She was known for two things, pulling up her shirt to show off her boobs to total strangers, and leading the dancers in violating the golden rule forbidding fraternizing with passengers. Pointing to a good-looking passenger, or "cone" as she called them, Sam in her spunky British accent would proclaim, "I'll have him," or her in certain cases. Samantha also liked to do splits on tables and jump into any body of water she saw, including water fountains in front of buildings or in shopping malls. She was a satiated Sharon Stone on crack, living on meaningless flings, cheeseburgers, cheap thrills, and living in a state of nirvana. All of the cones around her seemed rather happy too.

  As Assistant Cruise Director, I often orchestrated romance. My first and most powerful weapon was my ability to order champagne whenever I wanted. I had the magic debit card, which I could present at any bar and demand as many bottles as I desired. Champagne was supposed to be the prize for the many events I hosted, but often I defined events on my own terms and used this privilege loosely. Sunday was the big night for champagne. Besides the opening night for the Hall of Photos, Sunday was the first night on the ship and the big kick off for the Stripes disco. Stripes hosted the opening night Rum Swizzle Party. By the time most people arrived at the disco they were pretty much tanked and the Rum Swizzles just added to the effect. The disco stood at the end of the Promenade deck that was the Vegas of the cruise ship. Several nightclubs, restaurants and discos lined the deck; neon lit up the corridors. Small lottery booths manned by smiling cruise staff decorated the Promenade along with a constant barrage of bells chiming and coins drop
ping from the casino's slot machines. Every hour a loud yet barely discernible announcement would blare over the intercom from the cruise director offering cheery advice on shopping as well as the scheduling of shows and ports of call.

  When walking down the Promenade everyone stared at each other. It was the national sport. At the end of the walkway you saw crowds formed at the entrance of the Stripes Disco, a 70s style disco with checkered floors and a large silver ball twirling slowly from the ceiling. The volume in the room was enough to make a stadium rock. There was no real way to communicate with the person next to you except by mouthing something or touching them, a very popular pastime in this part of the ship. It was my job to increase the amount of touching. This party was the first of many singles parties aboard the ship. Before 10 p.m., the disco was fully packed wall-to-wall with people full of hope for the evening. First, groups of men and women stuck to their corners, but then the dance floor came alive and eventually passengers paired off. The room started buzzing and writhing with some pretty bad dancing. Think of Michael Jackson's Thriller and add some strobe lights and a lot of white people. It was time to grab the microphone.

  Entering the disco, carrying my pathetic bag of cruise ship-shaped plastic trophies, I headed directly to the disco booth, centered on the dance floor, to have a quick word with Johnny. I moved in slow motion, battling the gyrating crowd as I bumped up against the many party goers jammed together. Women looked back at me with flirtatious eyes as I gently touched their backs and moved closer to my destination. The room reeked of body sweat and stale cigarettes. Johnny was easy to spot by his shoulder length chocolate brown hair, dark blue blazer and cowboy hat that looked strangely out of place on this ship or anywhere but his home state of Texas. A former disc jockey in the sleazy strip joints of Dallas, Johnny was a true cruise ship veteran. "Micha, look over at that fox," he said pointing to a gorgeous blonde woman bending over a barstool. As disc jockey, he always had the best view in the house.