Around the world in 104 days!: 2015

On January 5th, 2015 I attended a "Rock the Dock" alumni event in San Diego. The MV Explorer is parting ways with the Semester at Sea program and being sold to a Greek cruise line in a few months. A handful of us from Spring 2011 returned to board the ship one last time.

As we were told on our first night at sea – every time you return to the ship after you first disembark, it is like coming home. When I saw the MV from the 5 freeway my face cracked open into a smile. I would know it anywhere, with its string of modest white lights draped over its smoke stacks. It seemed bigger than I remembered from the outside, but once inside, it seemed smaller. I had forgotten about the low ceilings and how narrow the hallways are. I sat on a bed in a room identical to the one I had lived in and was shocked that I had lived in this decently sized walk-in closet for four months. Although, what first hit me about re-boarding the ship was the smell. Another thing I would know anywhere. I wish you could bottle smells, I would buy “ship smell” in bulk and use it plunge myself into memories of what it was like to live on this floating campus. The antiseptic smell of the ship, mixed with the algae smell of the sea. The strongest memories were of smallest things. How cold it was inside the ship an how humid outside of it, and how if you sat by the doorway on either side you could feel the rush of cold or warm air every time the automatic sliding glass doors would open. I remembered the comically loud rattling of the union during rough seas, and the distinct patterns of the carpet.

The view from Deck 6

As I searched in vain for a quiet place to sit and reflect I remembered how difficult it had been to find such a place 4 years ago. I recalled feeling closterphobic in the wide open space of the Atlantic. Never alone. When I finally settled down in a place to think and observe it was on deck 6, at the back, facing the ship, where I spent most of my voyage. I smiled to myself remembering how things were always wet back here, and how the tables all had holes in them for umbrellas that were never anywhere to be found, which is probably because they would have been instruments of death in the afternoon winds. The strongest memory that returned was the memory of vulnerability. In my journal and in my blog I had rambled on about community. The community feel of “being in the same boat” and the families forged by traveling. What I had conveniently forgotten to remember was how vulnerable I felt the whole time. Just – being away. I couldn’t have pointed to my position on a map. I couldn’t have called home, I couldn’t become more prepared than I already was. No time to rethink wardrobe or reading materials. It is not unlike being given a choice of tools for a toolbox, and then being dropped from a helicopter into a forest on the equator and realizing too late that you had packed for a cold-weather adventure. I was heading off to new places, some of which I couldn’t pronounce until I arrived. No distractions readily available, no Facebook to browse, Netflix to watch, or phone to text with. I had my thoughts, and nothing but time on that ship to exercise them.

Just I had as a student, I found myself wandering the ship, trying to connect with it. I ate snacks on Deck 7, where I still felt wholly uncomfortable and unwanted, and I went down to room 3144 which I automatically tried to enter by leaning my whole body weight against the 100-lb door. I walked to Jason’s room, and found I couldn’t remember which number it was. I’m very sorry this ship wont be around much longer. If I were to do semester at sea again, I would want it to be on the MV Explorer. For all of its flaws, it is a magnificent place. And it took me safely around the world. You cant ask it for more.

Room 3144 I remember this view...

I don’t dream about the ship anymore, but I do still have dream-like memories of what it was like to lie on the hot deck where you could barely feel the breeze whipping around you. Or fall asleep to the hum of the engines underneath your cabin. Or see the whole horizon shoot up past the window of your breakfast table. Semester at sea sometimes doesn’t feel like it was a part of this life. I remember it like it was a past life. Part of that is because of how drugged I was. Malarone, Scopolamine, Dramamine…I really was only fully conscious about half the time. But as we expected, there were no big life decisions brought about by this trip, but rather a slower, deeper shift in our worldview. Not a dramatic call for action, but a widened perspective. I may not remember half the things I did in Africa, but I remember how I felt when I was there. The further I get from my shipboard experience, the more I realize I internalized.