by Micha Berman
One fateful cruise provided the scenario I had feared all along. On that Sunday, several hours before we were to leave port, warnings about a hurricane began to circulate among cruise staff. Everybody in Miami was preparing for the big one, people moving faster than they should, buying groceries for the next millennium. I wasn't too excited about getting on a ship, but the other alternative was to stay ashore and that didn't look too inviting either. The M.S. Ecstasy would be heading right into the eye of the storm so the Captain announced the ship would change its itinerary in order to avoid it. Everything was fine until later that night when the rain began pouring from the dark, angry sky. Soon the wind picked up and the ship began a rhythmic rocking that would go on ceaselessly for the next forty-eight hours. No longer did I feel the security of a 70,000 ton cruise ship. It was feeling more like a fishing trawler. Even topless dancers could not bring a smile to my face.
When I got up in the morning to run an activity, I couldn't even keep my balance on stage. In fact, I was standing at an angle! Lightheaded, I was truly scared for the first time. It didn't help too much that just a week before a sensationalistic television program had featured a story about an ocean liner sinking. I thought planes weren't allowed to show planes crashing on their monitors. I guess the same rule did not apply to ships. There on the TV monitor a huge cruise ship sunk into the ocean about as fast as a piece of cabbage into a trash disposal. It looked like a giant water tornado sucking up the ocean liner into oblivion. "That never happens," a surly passenger commented as I watched the screen in disbelief. "It just did," I answered. Now that we were in rough seas, that scene was on rewind in my mind. Was this going to be our final cruise? No doubt it was a preposterous question to ask, but in the middle of the night as the ship rocked violently back and forth it was more than a passing thought. Passengers were feeling the effects of the storm as most stayed in their cabins or tried to take in the fresh air on the outer decks. Many tried to pretend everything was normal but only a few were able to avoid the sickness spreading like the plague throughout the ship.
Many passengers believed in the magic patch. Adhered to the person's neck, the patch was supposed to provide enough scopalamine to soothe anxious cruisers. Among the Carnival family, this device was known to be a complete joke and Gary liked to say if you pulled the patch off a passenger they would lose all their air and fly away like a deflated balloon. The patches were definitely not working this particular Monday evening as a showcase of vomiting took place. Everywhere I looked, passengers were hunched over and if they were not actually getting sick their faces signaled the pre-vomiting tension. Usually walking around the ship there would be cordial greetings called out, but on this night each passenger was preoccupied with their own bodily worries. Call in the Red Cross. It was like a city that had been struck by a natural disaster, and if you were roaming the halls there was a good reason you were not lying in your cabin. Either you were going to get supplies or you were on the way to the infirmary.
The cleaners on the ship were busier than ever as they ran from spot to spot performing damage control. This night I dubbed the janitorial crew Noble Nicaraguans. They miraculously didn't jump ship, kept their heads up and worked through most of the night scrubbing the slop of the passengers. Unfortunately for all of us there were just not enough workers to keep up with the rate of seasickness on the ship and this resulted in random vomit landmines spread throughout the passenger areas. It was impossible to take an elevator, for when the doors opened the rancid smell catapulted into the hallway, leaving one no choice but to bolt. The stench made the Smelly Puff Ball seem like a bar of English soap.
Passengers asked anyone they saw in uniform where to go to experience the least amount of movement on the ship. Common knowledge on a ship of the least turbulent place is "middle-middle," meaning the middle cabin on the middle level of the vessel. The following morning as I walked down a crew hallway en route to the dining hall, I noticed a little old man sitting on a beach chair, lost in thought. "Do you need any help," I asked him, knowing he was not crew. "No, I am alright," he mumbled in a sickly voice. "Someone told me this was a good place to sit to avoid the rocking of the ship," he continued. By the time the ship pulled into the port of Puerto Rico, over 20 passengers had decided to pack their bags and disembark. I myself had spent the day before arrival in my room sleeping and praying for this cruise to end. The thought of a new week without nauseous passengers brought a smile to my face.
Luck would have it that the next cruise headed to Jamaica. Though I did not look forward to the waves leaving out of that port, Ocho Rios was beautiful and featured some damn good spicy food and breathtaking scenery. I had planned a casual day of shopping and relaxing and decided to spend the day alone trying to recover from the barf-a-rama theme cruise of the week before. Our stay in Jamaica was considerably less time in port than Puerto Rico or Cozumel, a lesson I learned well that afternoon. The cruise director always announced the time all passengers must return to the ship, but for some reason, with my mind in the clouds, I switched the time of departure with another port. Hours passed and I noticed very few passengers on the streets or lingering in the stores. This was unusual considering the Ecstasy had over 2000 passengers and their presence was strongly felt in a town as small as Ocho Rios. As I strolled along the path that led back to the ship I slowly realized that not only did there seem to be few passengers, there weren't any. The only people I saw were local Jamaicans. Voices of doubt and fear from the roadside warned me, "You're going to miss the boat, man," they said. "Yeah, right," I answered. I didn't take them seriously. As an outsider I was used to teasing by the locals and couldn't actually conceive that I was moments away from missing the boat.
Looking around at the empty walkways I gradually accepted that I might have made a grave mistake. I began to sweat. Suddenly a foghorn blew. The sound sent an electric chill up my body and in that moment reality, fear, and hair-raising pain all came together. I would have to make a mad dash. A few seconds later I heard the roar of the crowd on the top level of the M.S. Ecstasy preparing for departure. In the distance I saw hundreds of small bodies clustered by the railing, looking out at the forests of Jamaica, waving a half-hearted goodbye. My world was about to float away. "Shit!" I yelled in a primal outburst. My heart dropped to my knees and I sprinted towards what seemed to be my home pulling away. The last thing on my mind was staying on this island. Pumping my arms and kicking my legs like a world class sprinter, I prayed I could make it home. "Please God do not leave me!" The crowds' roar got louder. As I got closer I saw that the ropes that held the ship had been removed and it had begun to drift about a foot from land. The crowds' clapping and cheering swelled to a noisy pitch and in my embarrassed state I could only imagine that all 3000 passengers and crew members had recognized me and were laughing hysterically at the idea that the Assistant Cruise Director was going to miss his own boat. I instinctively pulled my baseball cap tighter over my head in a futile attempt to hide my identity.
The gangplanks removed, my only chance was to jump into an open cargo area. I zeroed in on the opening and leaped with all my might, ending up rolling to the ground right next to the Chief of Security, Henry. Big fat Henry, the retired cop from Kentucky recognized me immediately as the smart-aleck food-embezzling Assistant Cruise Director."Your ID card," he barked at me in his southern drawl."Here it is," I said solemnly and handed him my future with my head down in humiliation. This was the beginning of a wonderful relationship with Henry. This was normal procedure on the ship, handing over ID cards to security with the understanding that I would have to retrieve it personally from the Captain. Later I would learn, like a diplomat, I had immunity on the ship from many of the rules and regulations. Many crew members would have been fired immediately for barely making the ship's departure. Several dancers had missed the boat during their first week but as "entertainers" they also were privileged to be exempt from certain rules and were flown aboard at the next port. I was in no real danger, though
I was scared shitless and later that night Gary giggled and playfully threw my ID back at me. "Try not to do that again." Before long the incident was forgotten.
Just as important as getting on the boat, was getting off. Some crew called it "going stir crazy," others simply said the only way to keep your sanity was to get back on land and sample normal life. Each Sunday in Miami provided this sliver of normalcy and more importantly, an escape from ship life. I was like a Pavlovian dog, for as the port of Miami neared, my whole body shivered with childish excitement. A giant present awaited me in Miami. It was simply an American city full of all the pleasures I had grown accustomed to, ranging from movies, to shopping malls and the Golden Arches. It was capitalism with all its faults, faults I had grown to love and after some time away from my homeland, I now coveted. Of course, there was no guarantee that crew members would actually be allowed off the ship. Normal protocol called for crew members to be cleared off the ship at noon and have most of the day off in Miami. The quicker the passengers got off, the quicker the crew could follow. Sometimes due to passport problems or slow disembarkation for passengers, the crew was held up, but it was never for too long.
One of those typical Sundays turned out to be not so ordinary. For some strange unexplained reason ship staff were told they might not be able to get off the ship 'til 2 p.m. Furious with the bureaucracy of the port, this was the last news I needed to hear. I had been spending time with my high school friend Sandy for months now. Our routine was blissful: Sandy, completing a clerkship for a Judge in Miami, would pick me up at the port, and we would whiz off for day excursions as he would catch me up on all the gossip of our friends. Since I already had plans to meet Sandy at 12:30 p.m., I did not plan to stay aboard the ship. By noon, several hundred crew members crowded the lower level deck near the exit of the ship, anxiously awaiting permission to get off. I had been working in the office in the morning and still had my uniform on. As my desperation increased, I began to think of schemes that would get me off the ship. I was aware that the fine for having Carnival staff leave the ship before clearance was in the thousands of dollars, but at the moment I was so enraged, all I wanted to do was beat the system. Each new delay set off a chorus of angry sighs from crew members. It was starting to look like an angry lynch mob.
During Sunday mornings it was routine for me to pass into the terminal from the ship in order to check on passengers or run official papers to the office. Once in the terminal it was only one simple turn and I could be on an escalator heading to the street. Hustling back to my cabin, I undressed and put on some shorts and a T-shirt underneath my uniform. This was the closest I had come to Clint Eastwood in Escape From Alcatraz, but I was going to bust out. Grabbing some papers from my desk, I rushed by some security guards and entered the terminal area. I pretended to be in a hurry and looked very businesslike, and when I stepped on the escalator I quickly removed my starched work shirt and slipped on a T-shirt. I would have set off any lie detector close by with my body in overdrive, sweat and fear coating my skin. A couple more steps and I would be free. By the time I arrived at street level I looked like any other passenger. Sandy was waiting in the parking lot looking confused. I quickened my steps. As I walked briskly towards my getaway car, I glanced back at the cruise ship and had a hard time believing what I had just done. No one would ever know I was gone. All I could think about was the hundreds of frustrated crew members standing on the deck waiting for permission to get off. Basking in the exhilaration of the moment, I raised my arms to the sky and gently whispered the sweet word "Victory." I had overcome my latest crisis, and for a few hours now I could enjoy the sun and sounds of South Beach. Soon I would face my largest crisis of all--one that would develop within me and sneak up closer each day until it had to be faced.
Crazy Cruise Trivia
Did you know?
Those strange initials before cruise ship titles
actually stand for something.
M.S. - Motor Ship
T.T.S. - Twin Turbine Screw
T.S. - Turbo Ship
M.V. - Motor Vessel
S.S. - Steamship
Chapter 9 Honeymoon Blues
I was doing the cha-cha with the big white whale I had first met so long ago that fateful first day at the Port of Miami. Life on the ship was a honeymoon; after all, I spent most of my time playing while devoting very few hours to work. Yet all honeymoons must come to an end, and by the seventh month of my journey I was beginning to experience the blues. Emotionally I was beginning to suffer as each day began to drag. One night I found myself gasping for air. I quickly felt my collar to see if it needed loosening, but that did not seem to be the problem. I quickly ran up the stairs until I was outside near the pool staring at the sky and taking long deep breaths. "What was happening to me?" It felt like a mixture between claustrophobia and choking on a chicken bone. Spending so much time below the deck I began to crave fresh air. For a couple of weeks I sat on the deck each night reading books to avoid this feeling of claustrophobia. My patience was at an all-time low as I began to take some of my frustrations out on passengers. I was rushing through my activities. One afternoon during the Beer Drinking Competition, I found myself screaming at a pack of wild college kids. For months I had entertained passengers with jokes, but now I felt like I was dealing with school children. As my fuse got shorter I realized my time for departure was approaching.
The dining room was also beginning to become a very serious concern for me as I began skipping meals. I just could not stand to look at the food anymore. My appetite was non-existent. Many passengers have the mistaken impression that crew members eat the same food they do, yet the only time I ate in the passenger dining room was when I had a guest aboard for the week. Week after week I ate in the cruise staff dining room, one of several dining rooms serving meals for crew members. The most elaborate crew dining room, with waiter service and food similar to what the passengers ate, was the officer dining room. The Captain could be found here eating in the plush dining room except on nights when he was required to make appearances for the passengers. All of the captains I knew were on the shy side, and unlike on television dreaded going up to make public appearances. So much for Captain Stubing! The largest dining room was for most of the crew and was buffet style. The food resembled slop. This dining room was always alive with televisions blaring the soccer games from around the world.
The dining room I ate in was for cruise staff and had waiter service. These were the waiters in training and for now we were the guinea pigs. More to the point, I felt as if I was eating guinea pigs. For a short time the food was bearable and, through bribes, I was able to get adequate service. I would give my waiter a dollar or two before the meal and would receive good service. One of the great treats on the cruise ship is room service which is available to passengers at all times and coveted by crew. Crew members are strictly forbidden to order room service; however, when I was working in the office an archaic loophole penned into the ship constitution by the Cruise Director allowed me to dial the forbidden number. Grilled cheese sandwiches became my devilish secret. When I stopped going to meals I realized I would have to consider getting off the ship solely for the purpose of eating again.
In addition to suffering from the food dilemma, I soon found myself becoming a prisoner of time. As a crew member your life is always restricted by the hours the ship is in port. Checking your watch becomes a part of your life. Sometimes in port you lose yourself in whatever you are doing, but sooner or later the fun must come to an end so you can rejoin the ship. Gary had given me permission to stay in certain ports overnight and rejoin the ship the next day. This could be done with ports like Puerto Rico and the Virgin Islands because they were geographically so close that a plane could get me there in less than an hour. I never took him up on the offer but was close to doing it by the time I got off the ship.
I reached a turning point in my frustration when the ship began to feel like prison. When I actually stopped to think ab
out the similarities, I was astonished. Distrust was at a very high level. I began to notice items missing from my room and stood guard over my laundry. Over 800 crew members create an environment where it is impossible to know everyone, and a great deal of stealing goes on. Like a prison, a black market existed on the ship where items such as magazines and cigarettes could be bought from certain crew members. Of course, these items were legal, but many crew members rarely got off the ship and to them these items were worth paying a little extra for.
Almost all of the crew were men and the few women that existed experienced a lot of hassle due to this fact. The sexual frustration among crew members was evident in the way the men looked at the few women crew members as they walked down the hallways. Their stare was primitive and filled with ravenous hunger. Imagine a prison movie as a sexy lady dressed in tight shorts walks down the corridor. Now imagine the same prison movie but the sexy lady is a man with a beard, a wart and a long nose. On the cruise ship both would get stares; that's how bad it was. These few women were stared at as if they were some foreign creature on the ship. Every once in a while a special performance, put on by the cruise staff, would entertain the crew members. Charla would put on her sexy costumes and sing a couple of songs causing the hundreds of crew members to explode in shouts and screams. The scene could have easily been a group of soldiers during a war who hadn't seen women for months. Topping all this was dining slop-style which couldn't have been too different from prison. Security guards were always watching the crew waiting for them to break some rule. For brief moments all of these elements came together and voila, the cruise ship had become a prison at sea.
