Permanent Passenger: My Life on a Cruise Ship

by Micha Berman

  Clearly women like Alicia came aboard looking for romance, and for many the ultimate fantasy was a cruise ship fling with those of us who worked on the liners. There was something magical, mystical, romantic and steamy about meeting a certified seaman. I never believed it before, but I do now; men in uniform attract women. The M.S. Ecstasy was ample proof. Still for all the romance on the ship, it was often short and unfulfilling for crew members in the larger scheme of things, especially for the ones that had been on ships for years, one-night, two-night, three-night stands didn't really provide real companionship. That's where the crew bar came into play. A small room out of sight from most passengers, the crew bar was most importantly a bar, but also had other forms of entertainment like pool tables, ping-pong tables, dartboards, and music. The walls were plastered with a strange mixture of old posters from the different cities of Italy, courtesy of the Italian officers, and advertisements for beer. An oasis where passengers were not allowed, the crew bar was a place for crew members to get drunk together and seek companionship. Everyone in this room had a drink in one hand and their other hand on a colleague catching up on the gossip of the day. Crew members dated crew members, but life at sea had its dangers as anyone could be transferred at a moment's notice; couples were not spared. There was a second problem, a big one. Over 90% of the crew were male and for the male dancers this was heaven, but for everyone else that meant slim pickings. Once in a while a romance blossomed, but it was few and far between. I knew of a casino dealer who married a dancer. Their wedding took place on a Caribbean island and lasted 2 hours, just enough time to do the vows and make it back to the ship. These relationships rarely lasted.

  But for many of the men, the passengers were not a real possibility due to the strictly enforced "no relations" rule for lower ranked crew members and there were not enough women crew members to meet. What could they do? I found out at one port when I discovered my favorite jerk chicken center was actually a jerk chicken prostitution center. Every two weeks our ship docked in Ocho Rios, Jamaica. Not too far off from where the passengers disembarked, in a busy intersection of trees, sat a wonderful wooden shack selling the finest jerk chicken I had ever tasted. Each dish of chicken was served with a greasy bowl of heavily salted french fries on a cardboard tray. This gem was not known to passengers. Crew members flocked to this joint to eat; at least that's what I thought. It wasn't until I had eaten there for a couple of months that I noticed the crowds were all men, and often lower ranked crew members. They popped out of the bushes magically and often disappeared into the thick forest surrounding the chicken shack. When I looked a little closer I saw it wasn't just jerk chicken being served, it was a service center for sex. It was hard to enjoy my chicken dinners after that; seeing all the bushes rattle around me took my appetite away.

  Passengers rarely had to pay for sex, after all they were surrounded by romance. For the most desperate, loneliest and least socially equipped, there was a singles service called "Connections" which brought aboard 30 or so singles from every cruise and ran events to help match up individuals. I always found this group a bit peculiar. I mean the whole cruise ship was a singles party, still these folks needed help and were willing to pay for it. Tom, a single man in his forties, was their host. Tom's face looked like Mars, acne scars of his teenage youth marked every inch of his face. It was like looking at the bark of a tree and telling its age. With Tom's face you read the history of his teenage pimples and all the embarrassment it contained. I had my share of pimples too and maybe like Tom had played "pop the pimple" just a bit too often. I used to surgically operate on the little white things right in front of the mirror and watch them hit the glass and splatter. Thanks to a good dermatologist my face was in recovery, but maybe Tom and I had something to talk about after all. His face told other stories. He looked like the kind of man who was happy all the time, a smile planted on his face. I couldn't stand him. I always thought that people who are always happy, perky, high on life, well there's something wrong with them. Either they were high on drugs, totally brainwashed by some cult, or serial murderers."Hey Micha, how you doing," he chirped as he passed me in the hall.

  I got to know Tom over the many cruises we took together, he was clean and sober, not a member of a cult, so I concluded he was a serial killer. Once when I dropped off a letter for him at his cabin, a young woman answered the door. She was in a bathrobe and had a smile to match his. I recognized her face as a member of "Connections." So I had found Tom's secret. He was hoarding all of "Connections" single ladies for himself. No wonder he was as jolly as Santa Claus. He was leading the lonely, defenseless lambs to his lair of love. It was all so clear to me now."Say hi to Tom for me," I told the happy lamb in the door. Like I said, everybody was doing it.

  It was true that Princess Cruises has the claim to the title of the "Love Boat." If you think back to the characters of the Love Boat series, they all seemed rather obsessed with romance. There was Isaac, the bartender with his droopy eyes and all of those hackneyed pick-up lines. There was Gopher, who strained his neck every time a woman with two legs walked by. The Doctor who prescribed just a bit too much medicine to the lovely ladies visiting his office and finally even bald Captain Stubing who in his private moments cried into his handkerchief pining for the perfect woman to step into his life. These were romance-starved men willing to do anything to get a lady to share a night of romance under stars, including using the persuasion of their uniform as well as a nice cold glass of champagne. Sound familiar? The M.S. Ecstasy was no love boat, but it was pretty close. From cabin stewards, to band members, to dancers, everyone was doing it. Far off in the Italian shipyards a new Carnival ship was being built, the fairy of love was getting ready to sprinkle her dust, and closer to home the M.S. Ecstasy was getting ready to sail again.

  Crazy Cruise Trivia

  Did you know?

  In 1853 Cornelius Vanderbilt decided he needed a bigger ship

  to take his family on vacations.

  Hence with 500,000 dollars he launched the

  2,500 ton North Star Ocean Liner

  with his own private crew

  including a

  clergyman,

  doctor and

  purser.

  Chapter 6 Ports, Ports, and More Ports

  It's quite a scene. Passengers everywhere studying their tour books, maps, and travel brochures. As the ship nears its first port of call each passenger is consumed by their imagination, their buffet-filled brains processing how they will spend their ideal day in the Caribbean. Some will go shopping, others to the beach and a few will visit historical sites, but one thing is certain, they will not have a lot of time; the average time in port is not more than six to seven hours. Once the ship docks the footrace to see who can get off the ship first begins. Younger more versatile honeymoon couples with their spanking new tennis shoes and sex-driven adrenaline are the first to cross the threshold, followed by the more casual travelers and finally the walking infirmed, the seniors getting their last look at their cabin bathrooms before they head out on their adventure. It's a fancy Noah's Ark reversed, but much louder, chaotic and a bit less smelly depending on the cruise. Excitement fills the air as the cruisers get their first breath of paradise and witness the radiant blue waters and postcard-perfect mountain vistas.

  Our cruise ship switched between two routes, the Eastern Route and the Western Route. The Eastern Caribbean cruise consisted of the Bahamas, Puerto Rico, and the Virgin Islands, followed the next week by the Western Caribbean ports of Cozumel, Mexico, the Cayman Islands and Jamaica. The Western Route offered an endless list of delectable sins, partying in Cozumel, snorkeling in the Cayman Islands and dozing off on the white sandy beaches of Jamaica and indulging in the delicious food. The Eastern Route was more refined, gambling in the posh casinos of San Juan, Puerto Rico, shopping for bargains in the bazaars of Nassau, Bahamas and finally a round of golf and fine dining in the Virgin Islands. Working two itineraries was a blessing, after all I could see
six different ports in two weeks. For others in the business they had the unfortunate fate of seeing the same island every two days.

  For the first couple of weeks I too was quick to rush off the ship to discover these new and exciting islands. Curious to see everything, I studied Fodor's, Frommers, Lonely Planet and every other travel book out there, occupying my days in port walking the islands, exploring the beaches and restaurants and enjoying the historical sites. After several weeks my discovery phase ended; the ports had become familiar places. Coming to the ports each week was like coming home. I knew all the places to go and was getting to know many of the people. The islands lost much of their fantasy appeal and took on a much more practical use. They became places to run my errands.

  My best friend in port was no one other than the local telephone booth. Everybody working on the ship learns to accept a certain amount of isolation. Writing letters is one way to communicate with loved ones, but nothing beats hearing a familiar voice of a family member. The phone service available on the ship is too expensive for anyone to use, making ports crucial. In fact, many of the Caribbean ports have constructed telephone centers right off the dock to attract the international crew. As passengers come on and off the ship all day they are sure to see a flock of 30 to 40 phone booths, all occupied by a crew member transfixed in conversation. The wait could be as long as 30 minutes as conversations in Spanish, French, Hindi, and Italian all bled into a symphony of noise. On many occasions, I would rush off the ship minutes before it was leaving hoping to get in contact with somebody on the phone, knowing it might be a week before I got another opportunity. Most of my calls were made out of Puerto Rico, one of the few Caribbean Islands with affordable rates. The mother ship had some phones, but the price for calling was fit for rich folk and unless a crew member was in a life or death situation, it was not an option.

  My biggest telephone surprise came one week when I received my monthly bill, usually under one hundred dollars. The amount under payment due was an unmistakable three thousand dollars. Splattered across the bill were several hundred phone calls to New Delhi, Bombay and other various cities in India, each lasting 20 to 30 minutes. Immediately, I knew what happened; the ship had many employees from India and obviously I had become a long distance phone sponsor for one of them. Someone had apparently been watching me closely in order to steal my phone card number and had engaged in the AT&T reach out and touch someone campaign. For brief moments after I discovered this scandal I imagined becoming Sherlock Holmes and checking the entire directory of Indian employees on the ship looking for the culprit; however, I never really pursued it. Of course, I did not have to pay the bill and from that point on I was more cautious when making my calls.

  Ports meant something else very important to me--food! Growing sick and tired of the food in the crew dining room, I made it a personal rule to eat out at every port. In Mexico it was a little Italian bistro called Pizza Rolondos, in the Cayman Islands a German restaurant that served the juiciest Wienershnitzel and in the Virgin Islands, Madras, an Indian restaurant soon became my addiction. Most Americans take McDonald's for granted; however, after some time on the ship I was ready to bow at the altar of the Golden Arches and even began a food smuggling operation specializing in fast food. It was my personal Red Cross mission: transporting whoppers, burritos, french fries and other goodies into the safe haven of my cabin where an undernourished assistant cruise director could feed in private.

  The first time I brought a bag of Kentucky Fried Chicken aboard I was not aware I was breaking a rule 'til the squad of security guards descended on me. Henry, an old retired cop explained in his exaggerated southern hickish drawl,"I'm sorry it's against ship policy to bring food on board, son." I had to challenge this absurdity. Refusing to eat another serving of mysterious beef stew or half-dead veal with stale potatoes, I took the offensive."I would like to call the Staff Captain." The Staff Captain explained that as long as there were no beverages I could bring aboard prepared solid food; however, the policy changed weekly as every security guard had their own unique policy. After a while I hid the food in my shirt and avoided the hassle entirely. While other crew members struggled with their "ship rations," I enjoyed Big Macs and Whoppers. Some of my colleagues avoided the crew dining room completely, creating kitchens in their cabins, a major violation of ship policy. Electrical appliances like refrigerators, microwaves, hot pots were all forbidden in our cabins; however, Charla like others, developed ways of hiding their secret supply of kitchen supplies from security. Each couple of weeks I participated in a room inspection of cruise staff, along with a security guard knocking on each door asking for permission to enter. We waited for minutes at a time at each door as the sneaky criminals covered their kitchen appliances with blankets or sheets, and shoved everything else under the sanctuary of their beds. It was routine, we all knew what was going on and few arrests or executions were ever made.

  Despite the fact that I spent a great portion of my time on the islands dining, shopping and making calls, it was impossible to ignore the magic qualities of the Caribbean. The moment I stepped off the ship, I became a civilian again, returning to the world I once knew, a place with no curfews,no geographic boundaries,no limits on food,dancing,relationships and no uniform requirements. It was a life that you learn not to take for granted once you have lived on a cruise ship for a couple of months, and those precious six to seven hours rose to spiritual levels as my months on the ship closed in on a year.

  Ports like the Cayman Islands were spectacular, presenting me with opportunities of a lifetime. One of the most popular tours the cruise ship offered in the Caymans was the Sting Ray Tour. I decided to go along with a group of dancers to see what all the fuss was about. After a one-hour ride in burning temperatures on a small boat we arrived at our destination. The ocean stood still as a mannequin, transparent, a beautiful mix of blues and greens; it invited us into its realms. However, what made this area even more awesome was a large patch of black water which consisted of several hundred sting rays swimming in circular motions, each surveying their fellow creatures in straw hats leaning dangerously close to the side of the boat staring so rudely.

  Everyone was handed snorkel gear and off we went into the ocean to join our stingray friends. I was terrified at first and for good reason. "This here is shallow reef which at night fills up and is a feeding ground for the sharks," the local tour guide said, with a smirk on his face, and his turtle green eyes squinted ever so little. The locals of the Cayman Island are a strange bunch, but their eyes are downright spooky, all look exactly the same. "No worries, you are safe during the day from the sharks," the guide emphasized. Like much of my generation that has been scarred by Jaws my imagination began to create visions of a shark biting off my legs and dragging me below the surface, chomping me to shreds and serving my appendages as stingray appetizers. Wiping these images from my mind I jumped into the sea of blackness, dipping my head into the water and marveling at this new world I was peaking into. The stingrays showed no fear as they came right up to me, inches from my face, as if to be petted. "This was absolutely incredible," I thought as I swam amidst these wild creatures of the sea.

  The subject of sharks came up a lot on the cruise ship. I heard rumors that some of the engineers on the boat hung out at the rear of the ship throwing raw meat into the ocean to attract sharks. The story sounded intriguing but I never witnessed it. Johnny, the disc jockey, claimed to have seen a large black shadow in the ocean that could only have been a shark, but he also claimed Watergate was nothing compared to what was happening in Carnival's Miami offices and that Elvis was once a passenger on the Ecstasy. So fascinated by his many sightings of sharks and music legends, he got into the habit of carrying a video recorder around with him on deck, ready to film the next Caribbean Loch Ness Monster.

  When not swimming with stingrays, I played golf in the Virgin Islands. Each time our ship docked in St. Thomas I arranged to be off the ship as early as possible in order to take
a cab to a golf course called Mahogany Run, considered to be in the top 100 most beautiful golf courses in the world. It became my second home as I enjoyed the cruise employee discount, $15.00 for a round on this stunning course with tee shots on cliffs and spectacular 360 degree views of the ocean, which cost others their next of kin. I felt like I was on Fantasy Island driving around in a golf cart with a big fat cigar in my mouth with no one in sight. My golf game never rose to the miraculous nature around me but it was unbridled pleasure. "What did I do to deserve this," I pondered amusingly."

  Less exotic than the Cayman Islands or St. Thomas, Puerto Rico was like visiting any American city. It had all the luxuries I longed for including large shopping malls, legitimate book stores, coffee shops and large impersonal hair salons. Many items easily accessible on land became much tougher to find while living at sea. In particular I missed the opportunity to see movies on the big screen. Fortunately, one shopping mall in San Juan, Puerto Rico had a large movie complex with the most recent American films, each about two to three months behind in terms of release, but beggars can't be choosers and I was quick to line up for my ticket and popcorn.