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.
I would do it again in a
heartbeat.
Just prescribe me the Scopolamine.
(¯`v´¯)
`*.¸.*´
¸.•´¸.•*¨) ¸.•*¨)
(¸.•´ (¸.•´ .•´ ¸¸.•¨¯`•.
`*.¸.*´
¸.•´¸.•*¨) ¸.•*¨)
(¸.•´ (¸.•´ .•´ ¸¸.•¨¯`•.
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Look who I found!!! |
My friends! |
Gotta love magnetic walls... |

The Union |
Representing S11! |
My last view |