[When it was all over] we just rolled the Zamboni over the ice and we played hockey. […] and then I went home. And I cried. I realized, I hadn’t let myself cry the whole time.
~ Come From Away
or
Mirrors on the ceiling
Pink champagne on ice
She said “we are all just prisoner’s here of our own device”
[…]
Relax said the nightman, we are programmed to receive.
You can check out any time you like. But you can never leave.
Last night, on the final night of our Grand Voyage, we sailed through what is coming to be known as “the Caribbean Cruise Ship Parking Lot”. The Captain told us we were going to do be doing this, and he approached it with a great deal of respect. “This is a once in a lifetime sight, that I hope you never have to see again. I hope you never again have to see this many passenger ships out of service.”
It was an eerie, eerie sight. At least 14 vessels, sitting there at anchor, only half lit. As we passed, each ship of our own fleet flashed its signal light in solidarity. The passengers didn’t completely fully understand, as they were all focused on getting home in the morning. The crew though, most of us just stood there at the windows and railings in silence. Some of us cried. Because for foreseeable future – that stretch of ocean just off the coast of the Bahamas, that is our home. Each set of lights that we saw, represented at least 600 crew, which meant that we were sailing past about 7000 crew members from different lines, all feeling the same as us: scared, confused, stressed, homesick and trying to find ways to keep ourselves distracted.
Amras and I stood there at the observation lounge window, and I heard the words come out of my mouth without really realizing I’d said them:
Honey….?
Yes?
When are they going to let us go home?
I don’t know honey. I don’t know.
And then we went back to silence again.
This morning the guests debarked the ship as planned and on schedule (thankfully), Amras successfully went through his brief immigration check (mega-thankfully!) and then that was it…the ship was ours. You would think that would be a much cooler experience than it actually is at the moment. It feels extremely surreal. We are all still working, but you can’t shake the feeling that we are all still working because if they didn’t keep us working there would be no semblance of normality; and we would probably all go more than a little bit nuts. As it is, we have full access to one deck for dining and recreation, including the use of the pools, and our communication costs have all been lowered so that we can easily talk to home. They’ve limited the purchase and consumption of alcohol onboard, not because they don’t trust us, but because well…the Captain put it best (I may be paraphrasing here)
This is not because we’re trying to tell you what to do. It’s because when there is a change or a loss in purpose, along with a difficult situation, it’s easy to fall into a bottle and we really want to avoid that. All of us.
So yeah, I get that.
They didn’t limit coffee, tea or chocolate though, so hey I’m good!
It feels strange being the only ones onboard, our entire purpose onboard is supposed to be to serve the guests. Now we have no guests to serve. Most of us are used to having a strictly scheduled routine, and not having that feels…well it makes some of us jumpy. The ship feels like a ghost ship, with all the background music off in all the areas except the pool deck that has been recruited as our recreation area. I’m sure we’ll all relax and start to unwind a bit in the next few days. I’ll start offering classes to the crew, we’ll have movie nights, the cast will probably do at least one show. And because we’re being kept to certain areas rather than being allowed to spread over the whole ship, it is a chance for us to finally get to know each other outside the segregation of our own departments. One way or another, our days will return to as normal as they can given the circumstances. There will doubtlessly be at least one party.
Which brings me to something else. I want anyone who reads this to know that I am fully aware of just how lucky we are to be where we are.
We are in a position where we are fed, paid and cared for. We are in a situation where we are in basically no danger. While we have to be careful of social distancing still, the ship itself is uncontaminated so we are still able to have gatherings, see our friends, get fresh air, we are still able to hold onto that semblance of normal. We know that even though this version of normal is strange for us, it is much much more than the majority of the rest of the world has right now. We are 600 people effectively quarantined together in a very big, very luxurious space, and I am not for one moment taking that for granted. There will not be very many pictures posted on any social media of our time onboard from now on, because it would be neither fair or respectful to show of pictures of us well…being pretty close to normal…when so many others don’t have that option. So for those of you who follow my facebook, know that that’s why it will likely be somewhat quiet.
As I type this right now, we are on our way to that same parking lot we sailed through last night; where we will become ship #15 to join the silent, half-lighted ranks. We’ll get there at somewhere around 7am, and there we will stay until we have to either go out into international waters to process water or head the other direction to pick up supplies.
I have no idea when this will end. I have no idea when I will come home (my contract is due to end May 6th, hopefully I will be long home by then). I don’t know or understand much of what is happening with the world right now. Despite my knowing that Amras and I are somewhere safe and secure, there is a large part of me that would rather be back in the real world, despite it’s current fear and insanity, would rather be with the rest of the people we care about than out here alone among 600 other people.
But I do know this. Eventually this thing will end. Eventually everyone will be able to come home. And the best anyone can do until then is to, as the British say, “keep calm and carry on”. And like I, and many others keep saying, when all else fails – be kind.
Talk to you all as soon as I can.
Keeping all of you in my thoughts and wishes.
On land they are saying keep a somewhat schedule. Helps with staying sane, but also allows for relaxing time. I don’t have a schedule other than goals for each day: be out of bed by 11, walk daily and work on organizing hundreds of cruise ship pictures.
Stay safe!