It started with a bad padlock. The key I’d been given by my predecessor didn’t work, even after I tried the two methods I usually pursue. First I ignored the problem, hoping it would go away, but the lock did not magically disappear; neither did my need to access what lay behind it. Then I tried every key I had, repeatedly and with greater force, until I broke one. It was then that I began the official process, all wrapped up in red-tape as it is.

Having been told I couldn’t just call for a resolution, I entered a Work Order and then waited a couple of weeks. When there was no reply (and still, neither the lock nor the need for access disappeared - I re-checked) I called the Department Head concerned and told him about my dilemma. He told me to be at the lock in 5 minutes, making no mention of the need for a Work Order.

A young man arrived with bolt cutters in short order and began straining against the hardened steel. I watched for a while, uncomfortably unsure whether it would be better for his pride for me to cheer him on or ignore him completely. Still seeing no progress, I stepped forward hesitantly, “At the risk of embarrassing both of us, do you mind if I give it a shot?”

He cocked his head, clearly confused by my offer. For those who don’t know, I’m a big girl. At home I chop wood and haul water as a way of life. I’ve used bolt-cutters to cut padlocks at home, something he was clearly unaware of as he showed me how to hold them. He carefully placed the cutting ends on the lock and stepped back to smile at me encouragingly. We were both a little surprised when the lock snapped. His face reddened and so did mine. Yup, both embarrassed. By some ritual transcribed in my genetic code, I slid automatically into the platitude generations older than me:

“I think you loosened it for me. Thanks!”

There’s a reason these old lines stand the test of time… His smile returned immediately. I asked about a replacement lock as he returned to his duties, but apparently I had to check with housekeeping about that.

I arrived in the Housekeeping office to find a crowd within. I was uncomfortable in their midst, so I asked rather rapidly where I could find a lock. The answer was equally quick: there are no locks. When I asked when they were expecting to get more, the ranking officer in the room rattled off some words to one of his subordinates. Then, in a moment straight out of some surreal sit-com, the housekeeper dug under the desk and pulled out 2 heavy, 1-foot square boxes. Somewhat perplexed, I stepped closer to confirm what I was seeing. Indeed, it was true: the box on the right was full to the brim with locks. The other held hundreds of keys.

As I strained to suppress the uproarious laughter fighting to escape me, the housekeeper took a casual glance and shouted back that there were no locks. The official explained to me that more were on order, expected to arrive in a week or two. I had a vision of my unprotected door and asked if there was nothing that could be done. He smiled kindly as he shook his head. “No… There are no locks.”

The next day, one of the housekeeping staff that I’d been friendly with stopped by my office and inconspicuously dropped something on my desk. Tied up in assisting guests at the time, I couldn’t quite see what it was. As soon as I had a spare moment, I ran over and found a brand new lock with a matched pair of keys awaiting me.

The moral of the story is one that most ships’ crew learn in short order: The landlubber’s law that “it’s not what you know, it’s who you know” applies doubly out here. In our closed community there are intricate connections that run through all departments that can accomplish more than official channels ever will. Running deepest in the largest departments, these networks are known as various mafias in shipboard whispers, and are generally distinguished by nationalities. They are responsible for the little successes in our daily lives, generally at the moments when we find ourselves tearing at layers of red tape in frustration.

Speaking of which, I hear my Work Order is still in the queue.

Originally Posted: May 9, 2007

Having spent most of my cruising time in the Caribbean, with a brief jaunt to Europe, I have to say it’s good to be back in Alaska. There are a number of factors that play into this. First, it’s nice to touch Canadian soil in our homeport. Still almost 4500km from home, but the stores and the colourful money are the ones I grew up with. I can sit in Tim Horton’s with a National Post in absolute familiarity.

The weather’s nice too. No more of the sometimes stifling heat of the Caribbean. I’ve always figured it’s easier to bundle up than strip (at least in public), so cool days are a welcome change. I even like the rain.

Best of all, of course, is the scenery. Today we were sailing through the Inside Passage. The waterfront is covered with old-growth forests and massive snow tipped mountains tower behind. Sea Lions beckon as whales lead the way. How can sunshine, swimming and cheap drinks possibly compete?

The only downfall is that sometimes it just seems too easy. As I stand on the top level of a cruise ship and look over the tops of giant trees, I don’t see the struggle of life in the wilderness. I miss the bald eagle and even the grizzly on shore completely. The occasional log lost from a log drive looks like a twig from here.

The guest beside me exclaiming, “you know, I always thought sea lions were bigger. These ones are tiny!” doesn’t help. I want to explain that these creatures are actually much bigger than she ever imagined, that without a man-overboard, for instance, to add perspective the view is shamefully deceptive. I can’t think of a polite way to correct an overheard remark ‘though, so I just smile as I pass.

I’m reminded of the last time I was here, two years ago, cruising through the beautiful winding Tracey Arm Fjord and passing some campers who had likely kayaked for days to get out there. They watched us pass with the startled look one would expect to see on the face of early man watching a jet-plane land between him and his prey. I felt an apology was in order. As I turned away, a guest stopped me to ask why his cell phone wasn’t picking up a signal. I glanced at the mountains towering around us in this untouched wilderness, and explained gently that no one had put cell phone towers out here yet. He went off in a bit of a huff, clearly unimpressed with this under-developed part of the world.

Still, whether we see it by ship or by kayak, there’s a magic to this land. If we can settle the voices of today’s world, the whispers of the past come through loud and clear. The wilderness is still wild and glaciers are still huge. My Auzzie friend came back from at trip by float plane today to see the best of this world, away from the giant ship and the alternate world it carries with it. She loved the scenery, the experience and even swooned when describing the manly men. Perhaps the “manly men” are on to something.

Yup. There’s something about Alaska.

Originally Posted: April 25, 2007

My day started with a question from a guest:

How do I say “no” in Acapulcian?

I explained in my most courteous tone that Acapulco is in Mexico where the people speak Spanish, not Acapulcian, and that “no” in Spanish is pronounced “no”.

The root of the question actually bore more knowledge than the unfortunate wording did. If there’s a single word a tourist needs to know in Acapulco it is indeed “no”.

When I visited almost two years ago, I walked about five miles along the streets from the pier. I saw a lot of downtown second world reality and found it a little harsh. Today I walked in the opposite direction hoping, perhaps, for a different perspective. I’m not sure I found it.

As soon as I left the pier, I began my “no, gracias” mantra with the taxi drivers who swarmed around me. Where the cabbies dropped off, the men trying to guide me to their “mother’s store” began. I continued avoiding eye contact, walking briskly and repeating my “no” through a polite smile, ever wary that I might offend.

While the solicitation feels quite aggressive, those asking are actually the minority and they generally do back down after a single rejection. Even those that persist will only ask twice, but with such shear numbers the experience can be quite overwhelming.

Then there are the ones who seem downright annoying. They refuse to hear “no”, keeping pace beside you and leaning in like a close friend, intermingling their sales pitch with platitudes. A brisk walk and a single-minded gaze are rarely enough to shake them. My voice develops an edge and the “gracias” drops away, but still they persist. Today, after the ump-teenth unheard rejection, I stopped in my tracks and turned to face the man at my side. I looked him in the eye and growled out one more “no.” I think it came out sounding like a challenge, because he became suddenly indignant, still shouting at my back as I walked away. I remember having entertained the thought of engaging his battle, but thankfully thought better of it. I do wonder what would have happened with a meeker soul. Perhaps this is part of the reason we’re advised to leave the ship in groups.

Further down the road I found a place to sit on the beach in the shade of a palm tree, watching the waves break on the shore. I’d gone beyond the average tourist’s range, and so I found peace beyond the people selling their wares along the waterfront. A welcome breeze blew in off the ocean. I took some photos and enjoyed the moment.

As lunchtime drew near, I found the crowded bars and restaurants unappealing and the empty ones, frankly, disconcerting. I made my way back to a grocery store I remembered passing on my way and picked up the makings for lunch on the beach: a package of traditional Mexican white cheese, some fresh “salsa roja” (red sauce) and a huge stack of piping hot, fresh tortillas. All told, it came to less than $2.50 USD.

I kicked back again under “my” palm tree, joined now by a hungry pregnant cat, barely out of kitten-hood herself. After I snarled at her for making an attempt at the food on its way to my mouth, she sat back and waited patiently for me to change my mind. It worked.

The salsa turned out to be a fair bit hotter than anything on a Canadian supermarket shelf, but the cheese balanced it well. My calico friend gratefully accepted a piece of cheese each time I wrapped a new tortilla, drawing closer with every offer. Eventually she was seated beside me, watching the seagulls skip away from oncoming waves.

When the time came to head back to the ship, I began to gather up my things. I’d planned to leave Momma Cat the rest of the cheese, but she disappeared as quietly as she’d arrived. When I passed a man with one leg sleeping on a bench, I left the other half of my lunch bag by his head, knowing we can’t bring food onboard anyway.

The beggars and sellers along the street reminded me of why this is not my favourite port, despite the natural beauty and great food. I resent being seen as a walking wallet, even when I understand what perpetuates this mentality.

That said, I wonder why I didn’t mind the company of the begging Momma Cat?

Originally Posted: April 19, 2007

At the start of my first contract I was lucky enough to have a wise veteran with a similar outlook explain to me the things that aren’t in the manual. The truest lesson from my Ship Sensi was that when you meet someone again on another contract the relationship automatically leaps to the next level. Acquaintances become drinking buddies and drinking buddies become friends the instant you set eyes on them again. In a world where all our connections dissolve completely every five or six months, a familiar face carries a lot of weight. And so, high on the list of the unexpected joys for ship’s crew is bumping into friends who are now on other ships. Such was the case for me in Cozumel.

She started as a neighbour on another ship, progressing quickly to a dining buddy as we discovered similar tastes. A beautiful New Zealander (they’re affectionately known as Kiwis) with effervescent charm and a knack for bringing any plan to fruition, she’s easy to like. Only last week she e-mailed me, promising to buy lunch should we ever meet up. It was an easy promise to make, for while our ships hit some of the same ports, they do so days apart. In this life that means “not a chance”. The fates were with us, though, as I looked out my office window in Cozumel to see her ship parked alongside. I sent an e-mail congratulating her on changing the ship’s course just to buy me lunch (hey, if anyone could do it, this Kiwi could!).

Lunch was at a wonderful Chinese restaurant overlooking the ocean, joined by her friend, a fellow Canuck, and an Auzzie from my ship who’d been together with us on our previous contracts. Even though we’d only parted three months ago, the joy of the reunion resembled that of three years separation shoreside. I’m not sure why it’s so, but perhaps it has to do with spending every day with someone and then seeing them not at all. After lunch we moved on to Señor Frog’s, a popular chain of bars down here that barely manage to contain the perpetual party within.

For the uninitiated, this place is hard to describe. Long before you see the place, you can hear the bass beat and the whistles. As you draw nearer, the music and laughter fill in the gaps, creating a wala particular to intoxicated tourists having a good time in the Caribbean. We found a table amidst the throng and our waiter arrived as we did. A charming young Mexican man, he was full of smiles and laughter as he took our order. I remember the Kiwi saying something about a shot. Still, I was unprepared for the delivery.

Shortly thereafter a sexy young woman arrived with a bottle, a whistle, a shot glass and a blindfold. With precision timing and exceptional good humour, she proceeded to blindfold the Canuck across from me, pour a shot down her throat, shake her head (to properly scramble her brain, I assume), grab and juggle her breasts and slap her arse, all while creating shrill screams on the whistle. There was laughter all around (how could anyone watch this and not laugh?) as well as photographic evidence of the moment. The rest of us received the same basic treatment in progression, with slight variations for the character and attire of the recipient. I, for instance, experienced the added shock of having the empty souvenir shot glass plunged down my cleavage. The Auzzie managed to escape by pointing out that she was in uniform, but even so, she gave a startled squeal as her breasts were grabbed from behind, perhaps the assigned punishment for spoilsports.

Having had opportunity to watch this performance twice over on my table-mates and several more times around the room, it was no great surprise when another woman arrived to perform the ritual again, on the order of a table of guys a few paces away. It must be the most worthwhile drink a guy could ever buy a girl. I imagine it could be equally gratifying for girls to buy for guys, as the breast juggling is replaced with raising his shirt to tweak his nipples.

As I sat and watched the scene around me, the whole thing got me thinking (clear evidence that I think too much). I’m intrigued that in today’s society women grabbing women and men like this in public is so acceptable. If the tables were turned, if it were male servers doing the grabbing, I have no doubt there would be objections from men and women alike. So why is this OK? Why the double standard? Furthermore (and this I should ask this of my friends) what do straight women get out of it all? Is it really just a drink?

All told a good time was had. We enjoyed the drinks, the laughs and the company before moving down the strip to another bar offering a swimming pool. As for Señor Frog’s, I do recommend it… there’s no denying the experience was unique. I wonder why my Ship Sensi didn’t warn me about this?

Originally posted: April 10, 2007

I never used to take pictures of people… I’d often find candid shots disrespectful, but posed ones felt lifeless. Just recently I’ve started snapping away discreetly at the moments that beckon, but I’m still left with a great shot and the dilemma of what to do with it. Such is the case here.

On the tender ride back to the ship from Grand Cayman, a little boy was entranced by the black woman seated behind him. He turned around in his seat to study her skin tone, hair, and fancy long nails with intense curiosity. She was a good sport, engaging him in an impromptu game of peek-a-boo. Along with the characteristic attributes of Down’s Syndrome, his face also showed his boundless glee and warmth. This in itself was captivating, but there was more. When faced with an adult covering their eyes, every other child I’ve ever known duplicated the act exactly. This little man covered his ears. I loved the different way he sees the world.

So here’s the shot I couldn’t help but take.

I’ve tried to find him and his family aboard to pass it on, but on a ship with nearly 4000 passengers and only a day to go, the task has proved fruitless. I’m left, yet again, with a cool shot and nothing to do with it but remember the moment.

And perhaps share it.